


Holiday Evil

by Kytt



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Redemption, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:16:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kytt/pseuds/Kytt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set approximately 1 year after the Avengers Movie.</p>
<p>At dedication ceremony of a new cancer wing of the Children's Hospital, Tony Stark runs into Loki, doing rounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Second attempt at writing something 'Cannonish'.
> 
> WARNING: This fic will be set almost entirely in the children's hospital where Tony and Loki meet up. It will involve sick and dying children, so if you can't/don't want to see this sort of thing in your fanfiction, please turn back now.
> 
> Otherwise, forge on ahead and prepare for ANGST.
> 
> My darling Beta *did* read and edit and correct this, but then I got it back, and added like another 2 pages that she hasn't read, so please don't hold any errors, typos, lack of HTML against her. She remains, and will for ever be FABULOUS. And mine.
> 
> Personal disclaimer: There is no one whom I know in my RL that has not been at one time or another touched by cancer. Every year I donate to and sponsor participants working on cancer research related goals. It's a horrible, deadly, uncompromising disease and the fact that the number of children dying from it has nearly doubled since my high-school days makes angrier than I can possibly relate. This fic has sprung from that anger, and in my feeble attempt to bring yet more attention to this frightening and often silent killer. It is not an attempt for ‘easy feels’ and any sort of cheap ‘capitalization’ on ooh… kids with cancer, that’ll get me tears. 
> 
> To anyone who has/is/might lose a loved one to cancer, or has won the battle themselves, my heart and cheers go out to you. I wear my pink and run proudly for you. You are my heroes.

Fourth of July New York is a glorious, sweltering, suffocating humid thing, even before the city is set alight with the explosions of fireworks. Well, it is if you aren't wearing a one-of-a-kind suit with built-in air conditioning. Luckily for Tony Stark, he is.

'Well, it's been just over a year since the combined strengths of Earth's ('Midgard's!' a thunderous voice proclaims from somewhere off camera) mightiest heroes defeated the advanced Chitauri forces. And the public would like to know - what's next in store for the Avengers?'

The perky blonde reporter turns a flashing smile and equally flashing cleavage to the self-proclaimed 'billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, genius', holding her microphone out for comment, and cleavage for inspection.

'Mr. Stark, you came out to the public,' a few feet behind her Clint's laughter is only pre-empted by Natasha's perfectly timed elbow to his solar plexus, 'as Iron Man several years prior to the rest of the Avengers joining you. What can you tell us about the differences in dynamics in working with a team, as opposed to being the lone hero we all came to know and love.' The blonde inhales - in what she hopes to be a 'Monroe-like' manner, but just comes off as cheap - on the last word, threatening to pop a button, and Tony turns his head in a failed attempt to hide a yawn.

'There are rumours of tension brewing between yourself and Captain America, in a continued struggle for leadership of the Avengers. And what's it really like working and living side by side beside an actual, real God? Our viewers and your fans are simply dying to know!' She inhales again and this time Tony yawns, and doesn't bother hiding..

'Here, why don't you ask him yourself - I've got a children's charity event to get ready for - and if any of your viewers would like to contribute to a great cause, they'll be able to see me, Iron Man, later today, at the St. Mary's Children's hospital, where I will be personally opening and dedicating the Phil Coulson Memorial Cancer wing, paid for and built by Stark Industries.'

'Mr. Stark,' the reporter continues, her eyes taking on a predatory gleam Tony has so often seen in the past, 'our sources tell us that by funding for a cancer research wing in a children's hospital, Stark Industries are hoping to further distance themselves between the reported use of Stark weapons during the Afghanistan war, and supposed subsequent outbreaks of cancer amongst the soldiers who fought there. Do you have a comment for our viewers Mr. Stark?' The blonde makes no effort to hide her shark-like smile now, feeling confident as she closes in for the kill.

'Ms....'

'Perez,' the reporter offers helpfully, with a flutter of fake lashes.

'Ms. Perez, if you have done any advanced research on this piece, and weren't simply throwing out random accusations, you would no doubt had learned that Stark Industries have contributed millions of dollars towards research since the brave men and women returning from the front began showing signs of developing cancer. Not that it's of interest to you, but your viewers may want to know, that I have personally set up a billion dollar trust fund, solely intended to supply medical and financial assistance for the families of those soldiers affected by cancer, and any other war-related issues. There is, Ms. Perez, no such thing as an unharmed soldier.

Now if you will please excuse me, I'm keeping children waiting.' Tony says, and without waiting for her answer takes off straight into the air, the sound of applause fading in the distance.

Will he never be rid of the blight on his name that the years of selling weapons have left there? He answers his own question with a shake of his head. No... he won't. It doesn't matter the money he has contributed to the research which may one day eliminate cancer or Parkinson or Alzheimer, or any other number of causes that Stark Industries have been quietly, and anonymously funding to over the years. It doesn’t matter that his inventions have saved hundreds if not thousands of lives. It doesn't matter the lives that he, Tony Stark, Iron Man has personally saved, just like the billion dollars he has personally put aside won’t ever matter. All the press will ever see when they look at him is a warmonger and a story waiting to happen.

Tony allows himself a last sigh, before deliberately plastering on a smile, and landing on the front steps of his new wing.

'It gives me great pleasure, to personally dedicate this latest step in our battle against one of mankind's greatest enemies, to my friend Phil Coulson. I know that he would have been just as proud as I am to be here today, and I thank you all for allowing me this very great honour.'

To further cheers and his second round of applause that day, Tony carefully cuts the red ribbon holding closed the glass doors, smiling at the flashing cameras, the doctors, the nurses, the parents and children for whom the new wing represents hope and a second chance at life.

Several hours later, he's still wandering through the hospital. The children loved seeing him. They touched and petted and asked questions, and for however brief a moment forgot where they were. Most of them will not be moved to the new wing for several days, and are still sharing their existing cramped quarters. Tony's people have done what they could, bringing in jugglers and clowns and magicians to lighten their spirits, and the day, but a cancer ward is on its own for a reason, and in spite of best efforts, all too many of the children in it may not live to see the next summer.

On his way to the elevator Tony glances into a room where the beds have been carefully pushed together to form a semi-circle. A solitary figure, sits perched on the edge of one of the beds, back turned to Tony, so that all he can see is the brilliant flash of red hair, and a vibrant, emerald green cloak trimmed in peacock feathers. The children lying in the beds appear all but enthralled by the individual, and seem to have for the moment forgotten the vast array of tubes and hooks and wires protruding from their thin limbs, monitoring and keeping them alive.

Curious, Tony steps into the room, walking softly as to not startle the children or the storyteller, slowly becoming just as captivated by the skilful cadence of the rich, dark voice spinning the tale of a clever maiden, an honest knight, two brothers torn apart by jealousy and greed and wise animals aiding the heroes along their quest.

By the time the tale draws to its inevitable conclusion – lovers reunited and happily wed, villain slain and the brother's troubles resolved by their mutual death – Tony finds that he is every bit as wrapped up in the story as the children. It's not until he accidentally bumps a tray, sending the silver instruments clattering to the white tile floor, that the little group finally takes notice of him.

'Iron Man.. it's Iron Man! Iron Man, you've come to see us!! Iron Man can you take me flying? Iron Man, can I wear your helmet? Iron Man is it true that you have a machine keeping you alive, just like I do?' The last comes from a blonde, blue-eyed moppet, no older than seven, on whose bed the storyteller is perched, back still stubbornly turned to Tony.

'I...' Tony starts, only to be cut off by the flame-haired bard.

'Children, Iron Man is very, very busy. He has all sorts of rights to wrong and villains to tame. You may all ask him questions later, perhaps you may be able to persuade him to take time from his hectic schedule to visit you again? It's long past time that you were asleep. That was our agreement, you will recall? One story, and you will sleep without complaint.' The redhead stands, surprising Tony with his height. He's easily as tall as Thor, and something about his comment didn't seem to be quite entirely... alright... A dreadful suspicion slowly begins to form in Tony's chest.

'Awwww... but Dr. Locke it's Iron Man,' a little boy wearing a New York Rangers baseball cap on his bald head begins to whine.

'Eric,' a green-gloved hand is raised, brooking no further argument, and Tony inhales through clenched teeth madly trying to figure how he'll keep the kids from getting hurt in the inevitable fallout. 'We made a deal, you and I. Will you be foresworn to our bargain and accept all consequences that may arise thereof?''

'I guess not,' Eric mutters, twisting his blanket.

'Excellent. Though I am loathe to reward honesty, indeed, it goes against my very nature, on the morrow you shall receive not one, but two tales, and you may chose the second. Elizabeth,' he nods at the blonde moppet whose bed he is sitting on, 'will chose the first.'

'Awwww.. how come she always gets to chose first?'

'Because she is my favourite, and you should be grateful to be the beneficiaries of her presence here,' the God replies with efficient and wholly characteristic brutality.

'Now then, if we are in agreement, I really must be off. Besides, Iron Man has been waiting quite patiently, and politely, and unlike honesty, I do frequently reward good manners. If I am not wholly mistaken, he too would like a few moments of my time before I must start my rounds.'

'I... yes,' Tony starts, 'What? Rounds? Loki, what are you playing it at.'

Loki turns slowly, the smile, a razor on his lips, the green and peacock feathered cloak melting away into a doctor's white coat, complete with stethoscope dangling around his neck and a couple of lollypops sticking from the breast pocket. As he runs his now bare hands through his hair, it loses the bright flame colour, growing longer and darker, until it's the more recognizale blue-black of a raven's wing. The brilliant green of Loki's eyes is the only thing which remains constant, and they in turn burrow deep into Tony's.

'Stark,' he says dryly 'I am just about to go on my rounds, perhaps you'd like to join and we could chat along the way? The children need to rest now.'

And after dropping a gentle kiss on every waiting forehead, including that of the still sulking Eric, and the beaming Elizabeth, Loki spins, the white lab coat spinning out and twirling in his wake, and heads for the door.

'Dr. Locke,' Eric says plaintively, as Loki pushes open the door about to step into the hall.

‘Yes, Eric?’ the Trickster turns, an expression of polite tolerance on his face.

‘Well.. I was just wondering.. it’s the 4th of July and all, and well, all the other kids get to get out and see the fireworks, but we’re kinda stuck here.. could we, I mean, do you think.. could we please have fireworks too?’ Eric’s eyes are huge in the thin, cancer devoured face.

Loki slowly looks at the other children. Their faces are hopeful, but resigned to ultimate disappointment. These are children used to lies and broken promises.

‘Eric?’ Loki asks softly.

‘Yes Dr. Locke?’ 

‘You will recall what I said about courtesy and politeness being qualities requiring of a reward?’

‘Yes Dr. Locke,’ Eric replies, the barest twinge of hope seeping into his voice.

‘Excellent. It’s a lesson you would do well to remember later in life. Stark,’ the God directs, without turning his back. ‘I don’t much care which side of the door you wish to remain on, but do please close it.’

Not entirely certain of what to expect, but burning with curiosity, and he'll be damned if he's going to miss it, Tony obliges and pulls shut the door, leaning against it, on the off chance that someone may try to push through.

Ever the showman, Loki pushes back the sleeves of his white doctor's coat, raising his long hands in a elegant gesture reminiscent of a conductor facing his orchestra. With a flick of his fingers the blinds curled against the windows drop in a quiet ‘whoosh’, pitching the room into darkness. Even the persistent glow of the hospital machines dies down. The room falls into velvet silence, broken only by the honeyed tones of Loki’s words: 

There’s a green oak-tree by the shores  
Of the blue bay; on a gold chain,  
The cat, learned in the fable stories,  
Walks round the tree in ceaseless strain:  
Moves to the right – a song it groans,  
Moves to the left – it tells a tale.

As the God speaks, golden fireflies form and dance in the middle of the room, spinning until they build and grow into a massive green oak, great branches reaching far higher than the 8’ ceiling should allow with a trunk that nearly out-spans the width of the room. Slowly, a heavy gold chain winds itself around the tree, followed by the regal steps of a giant cat, progenitor no doubt of Cheshire and Shere Khan both. Tony can’t help but notice that the great cat’s green eyes are the exact same shade as Loki’s.

There’re marvels there: the wood-spite roams,  
Midst branches shines the mermaids’ tail;  
There are the strangest creatures’ traces  
On the mysterious paths and moors;  
There stands a hut on hen’s legs, hairless,  
Without windows and doors;

With a flip of her tail, the mermaid lands on a tree branch, modestly brushing her long tresses over breasts that would shame the average porn star. From the corner of the room, the chicken-legged hut stumbles over, and with a lingering cackle, vanishes again into the shadows. Tony loses track of the time, just stands, gapped mouthed watching as Loki spins fairy-tales and wonders. When thirty knights, each half-again as tall as Thor, march stomping through and past him and vanish into where the opposite wall should be, Tony puts his weight against the door, in anticipation of hospital staff intending to come in and find out what the hell was going on, but there wasn’t so much as a knock.

Under it heard a cat, much-knowing,  
Talking me its long stories’ set.  
Having recalled one of its stories,  
I’ll recite it to the world, glorious…

Loki finishes with a flourish, and the oak, cat, mermaid and all the rest fade as if they never were. The blinds silently pull up revealing again a space that is no larger or more magical than your average hospital room, complete with the pinging, beeping and chirping of various machinery. 

Finger pressed against his lips in the ages old command for silence, Loki leads the way from the ward, pausing only briefly at the door to watch as the gathered beds, enveloped in clouds of green, gently float back to their intended, original positions, without disturbing the now peacefully sleeping children.

'Loki,' Tony growls the moment they step into the hall. They're surrounded by civilians, sick children at that. If there ever is a place ripe for Loki's brand of mischief, this was is it. 'Why the hell are you here?'

'Here on Midgard? Here in this hospital? Here in this wing?' the God taps his perfect chin with one manicured finger. 'Please do try to be precise, Stark. I do recall mentioning that I have rounds to go on.'

'Here... here... on Earth, in the hospital, what were you doing with the children?! Not even you would stoop so low as to blow up a hospital full of sick kids. Are you?'

For the briefest of moments Loki's brilliant eyes flicker with an ancient pain.

'No, Stark. Be careful what accusations you throw around me, or I am liable to once more throw _you ___from the nearest window. Whatever you may think, I am not nearly the monster you would have me out to be. I would never knowingly harm, or permit children to come to harm. Especially not these. Now, if you will excuse me, I have rounds to make.'

And without further ado, the Trickster spins on his heel and heads off down the hall, accepting a stack of charts from a waiting nurse as he does, leaving Tony to stand, gap-mouthed, as people slowly part around him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for umm... harsh language? And possible non-cannon behavior, because well.. I'm the first to admit that I don't know the characters nearly as well as I should.

By the time Tony returns to the Avengers Tower, he’s fuming. Loki… LOKI is back. Escaped Asgardian custody and back in New York, GODDAMMIT wandering around, posing as a doctor in a children’s hospital no less! The engineer shoves the expected memory of the smiling children captivated by Loki’s story, and the magical ‘fireworks’ he’d set off for them, so that they would not miss the 4th of July, from his mind. Loki is a lying, murdering, manipulating sack of shit. Stark Industries’ opening of the wing and dedication ceremony has been getting publicity for months on end, no one living in North America, never mind New York City could have avoided knowing about the event. The fact that Loki just happened to turn up in the wing when Tony was there, could not have been a coincidence. And what about the children’s reactions and promises, the traitorous memory asks? Loki’s a mage, Stark reminds himself. It shouldn’t be a great stretch for him to manipulate those kid’s recollections of the ‘nice doctor’… Dammit!! And where the hell is Thor?!!

‘Jarvis!’ Tony hollers, even as the suit strips itself from him.

‘Yes, sir? How may I be of service, oh my Master?’

‘Remind me to tell Clint to not let you watch Star Wars again. I am not the Emperor, and you are most definitely not Vader.. though I am curious as to who you think might play the role of Luke… never mind – where is our resident Thunder God hiding his divine self?’

‘Mr. Odinson, Mr. Banner, Ms. Romanoff and Mr. Barton are in the dining room. Mr. Rogers is visiting a local home for the elderly, but should be back shortly.’ Jarvis replies, ‘They have just ordered dinner.’

‘Good. Record everything, my server only – file name – Dr. Punch.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Anthony!’ Thor booms, as Tony steps in, rising to wave at his friend. A year back and forth between Asgard and Earth, and Thor hasn’t changed a bit. He’s still a larger than life, golden surfer that occasionally throws the odd coffee cup into the fireplace. ‘You are right on time. We have just ordered that height of Midgardian cuisine – Pizza.’ Over his shoulder Natasha makes a face, and sighs.

‘Too bad, I was rather in the mood for Thai...’ Tony mutters, before dropping into one of the chairs. ‘So, Thor, old buddy, is there something that you have neglected to mention to the rest of us?’

‘I do not think so?’ Thor scrunches his forehead, looking not unlike a puppy that’s been good all day, but was accused of piddling in the corner regardless. Ever capable on picking up on the subtlest of cues, Natasha pushes herself just a smidgeon back the table, prompting Clint to do the same.

‘You sure about that?’ Tony asks mildly, leaning forward in his chair just a little bit. ‘Because I’m pretty sure I would have remembered you mentioning something along the lines of YOUR FUCKING BROTHER being back on Earth!’ Unbroken silence hangs in the air for a perfect, crystal moment before all hell breaks loose.

‘Thor! How could you not tell us?! I’m putting an arrow through his eye this time! Does Fury know? What are we going to do? Where did you see him Tony? Did he try to throw you out a window again? We need to tell Fury. It’s Fury, he knows. How could he have not told us?’

Arms folded across his chest, briefly hiding the arc reactor, Tony watches the chaos and Thor’s vain attempts to speak.

‘Friends, look I… Clint, you can’t... Natasha, Anthony, speak to them. Bruce, I’m sorry...’ eventually – about 30 seconds into the cacophony – the God of Thunder loses his limited patience, and brings his fists down on the table, splitting into two, sending cans of beer and soda and boxes of pizza flying in all direction, which is of course the moment that Steve walks in through the door.

‘Did we disagree over the topics again?’ The super-soldier asks a little too casually. ‘Terrific speech today, Tony. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there, but I promised the home I would stop by, and one thing led to another… so... uh... what happened here?’

‘Not much,’ Tony responds just as casually, ‘Thor was just about to fill us in on why the hell he didn’t tell us that Loki was back in town.’

‘Loki?..’ Steve asks a bit incredulously, disbelief spreading over his honest features.

‘Ya, you know Loki? Evil God, tried to destroy the world, threw me out the window, killed –’

‘I know, who he killed.’ The chill in Steve’s voice is reserved for a chosen few. Child molesters, abusive parents and spouses, people who hurt puppies, and Loki. God of Fire and Mischief. Thor’s younger brother. The man who killed Phil Coulson in cold blood. ‘Thor, why is Loki back on Earth? And why didn’t you tell us?’

Thor slowly sinks down into a chair, looking so crestfallen that even his gleaming, blonde hair seems flat. ‘I was instructed not to. By Odin, my Father.’

There is a general sigh of understanding from those gathered around the shattered table. Though none have had opportunity to meet the fabled God and King of Asgard, the stories Thor told of Odin were awe-inspiring enough to intimidate even the stoutest of hearts.

‘So Odin has what?.. let Loki go with a slap on the wrist? Because really, in the greater scheme of things, what is a few hundred dead and homeless humans?’ Tony isn’t anywhere near done being angry, though of all of them, with the possible exception of Natasha, he has the least to be angry about. All Loki did to him, was throw him out the window. It wasn’t like he took over his mind, or killed his best friend, or manipulated him into nearly killing everyone he cared for.

‘It was not like that, Anthony!! Odin cares almost as deeply for the peace of Midgard as do I,’ Thor objects, the anguish plainly written on his handsome face. 

‘No? Then what was it like then, Thor? Why don’t you tell us, and let us judge for ourselves?’

Torn between loyalty to kin and loyalty to friends, Thor stands torn, jaw tight and hands clenched at his side, unable to make a choice.

‘I... I can not, Anthony.’ He says finally, head hung low.

‘You mean you WILL NOT!! What a load of horseshit... I should have known that even after everything he’s done you’d still stand by your murdering freak of a brother –‘ Tony throws at his face.

‘No, he means he ‘can not’,’ an all too familiar voice says from the doorway.

All but one of the Avengers turn, pointing any weapons currently at hand, which in Tony’s case happens to be a pizza cutter. Widow and Hawkeye of course both manage to produce a gun and crossbow from someplace, Steve, having just returned and still in costume still his shield, Bruce stands ready, and Thor just... stands. His head hung low, as if he was expecting his brother to put in an appearance.

‘My brother rarely lies, Stark,’ Loki says, checking his nails for non-existent dirt. The God of Mischief is dressed in casual, Midgardian styles that sit well on his spare frame – black jeans and green silk shirt, unbuttoned low enough to give a glimpse of the lean line of collarbone and throat, the barest hint of gold at neck and wrists. ‘and when he does, he does so badly. You would do well to remember that as well.’

Seemingly undaunted by the assembled weaponry pointed at him, Loki takes an empty chair, crossing long legs in front of him, fingers twined loosely on one knee.

‘You, I assume, have questions which Thor, as he has already informed you, is unable to answer.’ Loki lets out a long-suffering sigh. ‘Ask then your questions then of me.’

‘Brother -’ Thor begins, but Loki interrupts.

‘I am not bound by Odin’s geas, Thor, and if your Father was foolish enough to leave that loophole free, then I for one, aim to take full advantage of it. Take what I offer, and be glad for it!' Loki snarls, 'Now Ask ask, mortals! I grow bored and would seek more satisfying amusements elsewhere,’ Loki stares each down in turn, until he comes around to Tony, and the engineer can’t help but recall Loki’s last words to him – ‘I am not the monster you would make me out to be, Stark.’

‘Why did Odin release you from Asgard?’ Naturally it's Natasha who throws out the first question, like a punch, folding her hands quietly in front of her.

‘Oh very good, Ms. Romanoff. Do, lets start with the obvious, so that the rest of the 'class' can keep up.’ Loki nods in mocking approval, his smile holding all the warmth of Jotunheim in winter. ‘Because he was told to.’

‘Who told him to?’ Tony snaps impatiently. Beside him, he can tell that Steve is still focused on controlling his breathing. Maybe they should send the Cap to whatever monks Bruce had supposedly studied with, he thinks? 

‘The terms of my release were dictated by the Norns themselves, and even the great Odin, in all his power cannot dispute their orders.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I normally thank everyone who helps make this happen, except that my list is growing overwhelmingly, impossibly, gloriously long.
> 
> So.. lets put it this way - if you are here, reading. Thank you.
> 
> PS I love you Rikacain! 
> 
> :P


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where I start playing fast and loose with Cannon (again). Though not myth.. my mythology, where possible, is pretty accurate - except the bit about Odin's eye. He sacrificed it to Himself, not lost it in a battle with some beast. You can blame Loki for changing the story on that one. - or at least as accurate as it can be, given the subject matter.

‘And what, exactly,’ Tony asks, pinching the bridge of his nose, a familiar, Loki-related headache starting to set in. ‘are ‘Norns’?’  
‘Not what, but _who_ , Stark,’ Loki replies assured and cool as ever.

‘The ‘Norns’ are the Norse equivalent of the Greco-Roman version of ‘Fates’ that we are more familiar with, Atropos, Lachesis and Clotho.’ Bruce, silent until now suddenly looks up from the back. Under the sudden scrutiny of his teammates, the retiring genius shrugs slightly into himself. ‘What? If we are going to have Norse Gods popping in for lunch, I thought it might be prudent to do some research. But I thought they didn’t, or couldn’t leave the roots of Yggdrasil.’ Bruce directs his question to Loki, who listens with a bemused expression on his expressive face.

‘Yggdrasil, the All Tree.’ Loki begins, and Tony watches as his teammates slowly fall under the spell of the God’s exquisite voice. ‘Once erroneously named the Odin Tree, the source of All. The Tree Odin went to in search of knowledge, and where he encountered that which took his eye.’

‘What took his eye?’ Steve, ever a sucker for a good story asks, seemingly in spite of himself and blushes with the realization.

Loki chuckles quietly, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him that question, Mr. Rodgers. I for one have never been sufficiently curious about the source of my Father’s wisdom to have that conversation.’

‘Don’t change the subject, Loki,’ Tony breaks in. ‘You were telling us about the Norns, and why they deemed you important enough to leave this Tree they supposedly never leave.’

‘Indeed I was… ‘ the God nods. ‘The Norns are tasked with a purpose. Perhaps the most important purpose of us all – they water the roots of Yggdrasil, ensuring that Her branches do not rot, allowing All Eternity to come crashing down.’ Loki gestures with his long-fingered hand at the shattered remains of the dining room table. ‘As such, they _cannot_ leave their post. Not even for an instant.’

‘Then how,’ Tony asks again, ‘if they cannot leave their post, did they manage to intervene on your behalf with Odin? And more importantly – What is so hellishly important about _you_ , that they would do so?’

‘The how is simple, Stark. Being that they are creatures of power incomprehensible to your tiny mortal minds,’ Clint opens his mouth, only to again encounter Natasha’s timely placed elbow,. ‘The Norns are able to project their images, when and as they please. Very much in fact as I am doing now.’ Loki adds.

‘What?’ Steve stomps over to Loki, and tries putting his hand through Loki’s shoulder, only to encounter… nothing.  
‘Mr. Rodgers, tsk tsk tsk.’ Loki shakes his head while making the disapproving sound. ‘And I thought we were getting along so well? Did you lot honestly think that I would be so foolish as to actually _walk into_ your Tower un-armed and unprepared? Really now.’

‘Brother, you know that I would never allow you to come to harm,’ Thor begins, but Loki snaps his head to face the blonde giant, all pretense of civility gone in that instant, his eyes burning with an unquenchable rage. 

‘Really brother? Would you now? As you did not allow that green beast hiding under Dr. Banner’s skin to pound me into a bloody smear on the floor of this very tower?’ Loki regains his composure just as quickly, straightening the perfect line of his shirt.

‘Forgive my outburst – as you can see, all is not yet well in the House of Odin, in spite of the Norn’s timely interference. Where was I?... Oh yes – the Norn’s presence at my so called trial.

I was not given leave to speak, either in defense of my supposed crimes –’

‘Supposed! You destroyed half of New York! You killed Phil! You were going to – ‘ Clint begins, before Natasha bodily shoves him from the room, and pulls the door closed behind him, with an apologetic shrug directed at Steve and Tony.

‘As I was saying,’ Loki continues, ignoring the interruption, as if it never happened. ‘I was not given leave to speak. The collar, so thoughtfully provided by my own supposed kin prevented me from using my magics, and all I was able to do was wait, while my fate was decided and the manner in which the sentence was carried out.’

As Loki speaks, Tony can’t help but look at Thor. The blonde is standing ram-rod straight, fists knotted at his side, a muscle leaping in a jaw so tightly clenched, Tony expects that any moment he’ll hear teeth start to break.

Tony can almost imagine, though he’s never seen the hall of Asgard, he’s heard Thor speak of it often enough, the gathered Gods and populace. Odin, in his full regalia, high on his throne, Frigga, elegant and poised at one side, Thor on the other. All eyes would be on Loki, who would refuse to kneel, his head unbowed, for all that he was gagged and cuffed, listening to Odin read out a sentence that might end his life.

‘For my crimes against the people of Asgard, and for inciting a war which would have cost a million of lives again or more, I was to be banished, chained for eternity beneath the halls of Asgard, and my name would be stricken from Asgardian Lore, that none again might speak the name of Loki Odinson.’ Loki’s voice is cool, dispassionate, as if he’s telling the story of someone else, but Tony recalls the passion in his voice when he read poetry to children, and thinks he’s found another way in which the God of Lies spins deceit. Thor’s face on the other hand is a study in agony. He bites his lips, and unshed tears glimmer in his eyes.

‘As Odin’s executioner came forward, prepared to chain and cast me down, the Norns appeared. They bid all, save Odin and myself to leave the hall, for they had business to discuss with us.

And thus, you find me here.’ Loki smiles, spreading his hands, his tale concluded.

‘But.. what?’ Tony exclaims. ‘What a load of crap?! What did they say? Thor?’  
‘I do not know, my friend. The things they said remained between the Norns, my sire and Loki. To further bind our lips, Odin bid none of us may speak of what took place, save apparently Loki. How did you escape Odin’s geas, brother?’ Thor suddenly asks.

‘I lied, brother,’ Loki replies unexpectedly and simply. ‘When Odin laid his geas, I lied and said I would obey.’ He stands, unfolding slender legs and rising to his full, surprising height. ‘And now, if you will all excuse me - I’m due back at the hospital, I’m covering the midnight shift.’

And with a mirthless smile, the God is gone, as he never was, which, ultimately, he wasn’t.

The Avengers sit, staring at one another for a long moment, before Bruce, unexpectedly asks the obvious question. 

‘So. Who’s going to tell Fury?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you my Beta, and everyone still reading.. I'm still getting over the fact that you guys are here.. you blow me away. In a most spectacular manner.


	4. Chapter 4

Fury, as Tony quickly discovered, was already well aware of Loki’s presence back on Earth, more specifically in New York City. Fury, as he so pointedly informs Tony in no uncertain terms, not only knows what Tony had for dinner last night but how big a shit he took this morning. Loki, Fury says, had done the unexpected and announced his presence, and intention to remain on Earth, to SHIELD nearly a year ago, and he and Fury had come to an understanding, and no, the nature of the arrangement is none of ‘Iron Man’s - or any of that other motley crew of costumed morons’ that waste Fury’s time and valuable government resources with alarming regularity – business, and Stark needs to keep his nose out of it, or Fury will keep it out for him.

Frustrated, angry, and perhaps just a tad embarrassed, Tony leaves the SHIELD offices, that week masquerading as an unassuming bakery, chewing on a surprisingly good cheese Danish. Fury knows, Thor knows… is there anyone living in New York who isn't aware that the God of Chaos has returned and is parading down the halls of a hospital, masquerading as a doctor in _his_ wing of all things… his wing… ‘ _My_ wing!!’ Tony exclaims, startling a woman walking down the street next to him, who proceeds to give him a dirty look and mutters something about ‘those damned hippies, and young people these days’. Tony favours her with a charming smile and flags down a cab, directing the cabby to take him to St. Mary’s Hospital for children. It is _his_ wing, Goddamit, and he will visit it whenever he likes, and Nick Fury can kiss his ass for all he cares.  
Dr. Locke is regretfully not on duty when Tony arrives. He had been up, Tony was is informed by the nurse on duty, - after a significant amount of flirting and hinting that the tabloids are all wrong, and really what Tony likes most in a bedmate is a woman of a ‘certain age’ and maturity, and if she happens to carry an extra few dozen pounds, well, all the better to love her with – until nearly five that morning, assisting with a bus-load of injured school children whose driver suffered a heart attack at the wheel had driven off a bridge.

Such a charming young man, Dr. Locke, the nurse offers without further prompting. So polite and helpful. Horrible tragedy that, what happened with his family. His family? Tony asks, leaning on the desk, all earnest smile and eyes aglow with curiosity. Oh yes, the nurse confides – Dr. Locke had his own practice, somewhere out West, but there was an accident, a driver fell asleep at the wheel and plowed into the car driven by his wife. His daughter was in her car seat in the back. Both killed instantly. How utterly tragic.  
Tony nodded, making all the appropriate noises, and moved on.

Dr. Locke? Oh yes, the janitor confides, great young fellow that, for all that he’s just barely out of school. Always a kind word, and a bottle last Christmas. This is his first position, does Mr. Stark know? Young as he is, it might explain why he’s so good with the children, and they all just adore him.

Dr. Locke? He came in to consult as a specialist from some hospital down in Florida and loved New York so much he stuck around, an orderly tells Tony. Best thing to have happened to the hospital in years. Always so willing to help out, and never mind that it might be ‘beneath’ him, like some other doctors might say.

Dr. Locke? Oh yes, his niece was a patient once, and he was so impressed with the hospital that he stayed.

Dr. Locke? He’s been around for years, no, can’t quite recall when he joined the staff, perhaps one of the others could?

By the day's end, Tony has spoken with nearly two dozen of the hospital staff, has received nearly three dozen different answers. The only thing the reports have in common, is that Dr. Locke is universally loved, is a paragon of human virtue and the best thing to have happened to the children staying in the hospital in years.  
Exhausted, and even more frustrated than he was he set foot in the hospital. About ready to go, he turns down a hall, only to run nearly nose into nose into Loki, once more in his guise as the impeccable Dr. Locke, complete with chart and stethoscope.

‘Why Mr. Stark, what an unexpected, and pleasant surprise,’ Loki’s smile is full of barely concealed malice and more than a small hint of suppressed violence. ‘The children _will_ be so pleased to see you again, so soon after your _last_ visit. The ward is this way..’ Loki purrs, slipping his arm gracefully through Tony’s and taking advantage of his stunned surprise, propelled him down a hall and around a corner.

‘I don’t know what you think you are doing here, Stark,’ Loki growled, the moment they turn down a deserted hall. Surprising the inventor as always with his strength, he’s a God for crying out loud, for all that’s not built like Thor, Loki has Tony pressed tightly against the wall, held up easily, one hand around his throat. ‘And quite frankly I don’t care. I told you once, if you upset my children I will skin you alive…’

He _should_ be terrified, Tony thought. He be fighting for his life, for all that he’s without a suit, and Loki is a God, and all he can think of is the way that Loki’s breath dances against the curl of his ear, and how the hand feels wrapped around his neck, and that Loki’s neck is considerably longer than he remembered, and that the hollow at its base looks like it was molded specifically for Tony’s mouth, for all that he’d have to work his way around some weird-ass collar the God is wearing. Loki smells of hospital antiseptic, and ozone, and some expensive men’s cologne and something dark and spicy like myrrh, only smokier and sweeter, and completely Loki.

‘I’ll destroy you Stark,’ the God was whispering, a heated, rambling rant, and Tony wondered, not for the first time, if Loki was as mad as Thor would have them believe. ‘If you dare bring grief and further harm to my children, I will destroy you. I will make of your existence a misery that your priests will frighten pupils with for generations yet to come. I will...’

Nurses wear soft-soled shoes in the echoing hospital corridors for a reason. They were designed to be silent, to not be heard, yet somehow Loki must have heard her, the intern turning down the hall, because in the instant before she sees them, Loki’s mouth was pressed down on the inventor’s, sealed with the pretense of passion, and the choking hand around his throat became a caress, the other clutching Tony’s shoulder tightly, drawing them, if possible even closer together. Loki’s lips were soft and cool, and warmer than Tony expected, because after all – Frost Giant! - barely open and moving against his own with just the hint, the teasing, skillful promise of a tongue, electrifying all the same. With a groan he couldn't quite hold back, Tony buried his hands in Loki’s hair, thumbs just brushing those perfect, ivory cheekbones in passing, deepening the kiss as if his very life depended on in.

‘Oh…’ the very young nurse said quietly, eyes huge and frozen, unable, or possibly unwilling to look away, but blushing furiously all the same, staring at the two men rutting like a pair of teenagers against the wall. ‘I... err... I’m terribly sorry. I... I... I’ll just go.’

Loki stood back, his lips no worse for the wear, at least judging by the wholly disarming, and just a touch embarrassed smile he offered, and Tony shakes his head because Oh Lord.. the God of Lies, and how could he have believe, even for a moment. ‘Our fault entirely, Julie... it is Julie, isn’t it?’ The young nurse nods, repeatedly, still blushing, as Tony coughed, and straightened his pants that were suddenly too tight, standing behind Loki’s all too convenient back. ‘Anthony was just leaving, weren’t you, Anthony?’  
Tony nods. Loki was playing a game, clearly, and until he knew the rules, or at the very least held a score-card of his own he’ll play along.  
‘Good… you will remember what I said then? And do please pass it on to your friends, the same stands for them just as much. I’ll be in touch soon.’ And after blowing the still somewhat stunned Tony a kiss, and nodding politely at the ridiculously grinning Julie, Loki headed back down the hall, humming a Gilbert and Sullivan show tune.

The next morning the tabloids were full of reports – ‘Has playboy billionaire found true love at last?’; ‘Tony Stark caught making out on hospital grounds with gorgeous young surgeon!’ complete with stock photos of Tony taken at the opening of his wing, and other, significantly less clear, though recognizable photos of Loki taken in and around hospital grounds. The more ‘rational’ papers asked if the Stark Industries’ donation of a wing was made solely based on Stark’s relationship with one of the doctors, and what it would mean for future donations, should this relationship, like Stark’s many others, will also fall short.

A less than enthused phone-call from Fury accompanied the morning paper, wondering what the hell Stark was thinking, and didn’t he specifically tell him to stay the hell away from Loki?

The following week sped by in press conferences, during which Stark’s stable of lawyers and spinners earn their keep, explaining that although Mr. Stark was a whole-hearted proponent of equal rights, and believed that love had no boundaries, he and the esteemed Dr. Locke were simply friends, and Stark Industries' donation of the wing had nothing what so ever to do with any perceived or reputed relationship between Mr. Stark and Dr. Locke.

The week after a heavy white envelope was hand-delivered by a courier. Addressed to Mr. Anthony Stark, aka Iron Man, the letter inside, written in elegant long-hand, informed ‘Stark’ that the children missed him and had demanded that Iron Man return for a visit as promised.

The letter was signed simply with ‘L.’, but left no doubt what so ever in Tony’s mind what so ever as to who wrote it, or the possibility that he had any choice in refusing the ‘invitation.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Rika, again and for everything.
> 
> 'Dr. Lowkey' was changed to 'Dr. Locke' because as she so deftly pointed out 'Lowkey' is just tacky :D
> 
> Thanks again to everyone for reading, and commenting and being simply FABULOUS.


	5. Chapter 5

Anthony Stark, billionaire playboy philanthropist genius superhero, does not like being summoned. Most assuredly, he did does not appreciate being told what to do, and on his worst day, does not take well to being brought to heel like a well-trained dog. The other Avengers know this. Fury knows this. Hell, the majority of the free – and parts of the ‘less free’ world know it as well, and proof of that is now rubble lying in what was once a cave and will for ever serve as tomb to a good and brave man.

So when he goes to the hospital the next day, he does not go in answer to Loki’s summons. He does not even go to because there are sick children ‘requesting’ his presence. He tells himself that he is going because he is curious. He tells himself that he is going, because contrary to whatever Fury has to say on the subject, Loki is plotting _something_ , and he, Anthony Stark, Iron Man, Avenger, will be damned if he is going to allow that maniac to destroy his city. Again. He tells himself his reasons for going has nothing what so ever to do with the feel of cool lips, a long hand wrapped around his neck, and the smell of myrrh and ozone.

The day is Sunday, and the hospital is full of visiting families, friends and the associated, accompanying chaos that followed Iron Man wherever he went, blending in nicely with the normal hospital sounds, balloons, flowers and masses of stuffed animals. Not surprisingly, after doing a precursory run of the other floors, Tony finally locates Loki in the terminal cancer ward. The Trickster is wearing a striped, red and white apron over his usual doctor’s coat, hair the black shade of a raven’s wing set off by a paper cap, tipped at a jaunty angle, and is busy pushing an old-fashioned ice-cream cart, complete with multi-coloured balloons. With typical, and apparent effortless grace, Loki doles out giant ice-cream cones, that look like they shall topple any moment, and yet remain intact, covering them with a rainbow variety of flavours from strawberry to shredded coconut to sprinklers and freshly chopped nuts. Each ‘customer’ receives a smile, and a balloon, though the bunch appears no smaller, no matter how many he gives out.

From his semi-secluded vantage at the corner, Tony watches silently, observing Loki’s bright smiles and easy manner with the children, the more reserved attitude he gives to their parents, and yet no one falls over clutching their throat. The ice-cream does not turn into to toads, or maggots, any other number of unpleasant things that one will never want to find on their tongue. As if he can sense him, or read his thoughts, Loki turns slowly, cone in hand, and slowly wraps an inhumanly long, pink tongue around its tip, peering up at Tony from beneath long, spiky lashes.

‘Tempt you with an ice-cream, Stark’ Loki asks with sublime innocence, surrounded as he is still by children.

‘Iron Man!! Iron Man!! Look at my balloon! It’s red, just like your armour!! Do you want a lick of my ice-cream, Iron Man? It’s cherry with chocolate sprinkles. Ewwww.. Cherry ice-cream is gross! Who will ever want to eat that? Well, you’d eat booger ice-cream! Would not! Would too! Would not!’ and suddenly, Tony is surrounded by a riot of small, sticky-fingered little people, armed with explosive devices (balloons) and chemical warfare (melting ice-cream cones) and all he can think of, is how much enjoyment Jarvis is going to derive from watching him get congealed ice-cream out from between his joints, and Loki is calmly leaning on his cart, performing acts that are still illegal in a half-dozen states to an unsuspecting ice-cream cone.

Eventually the ice-cream runs out, or else Loki gets bored of watching Tony suffer unspeakable torments at the sticky fingers of his minor demons and announces that Iron Man has other children to go see, pushing his cart down the hall, Tony trailing with surprising gratitude in his wake. The God says nothing, as they make their way down the corridor, merely continuing to hand out cones, balloons and smiles in equal measure, refusing, or simply ignoring Tony, when the Avenger tries to catch his eye, until they arrive at their destination. Loki stops then, pausing before opening the door, still without meeting Tony’s gaze, and for a split second Tony can see beneath the Trickster’s mask – the lines of pain and weariness, drawn in his enemy’s exquisite face, and an ancient, ageless sorrow, carved into the elegant bones. Almost in spite of himself, Tony reaches out, to lay a hand of comfort on Loki’s shoulder, only to have the gesture met with narrow, distrustful eyes, just then realizing that the touch of a metal-wrapped hand will, not come off as comforting, no matter what his motives. The moment broken, Loki pushes open the door, smile firmly back in place, and basks in the welcome of his fans.

‘Dr. Locke, Dr. Locke!! You came!! Just like you promised and you brought ice-cream, and Iron Man!! Dr. Locke, I’m done with my treatment for the week and I didn’t cry once, could I have extra scoops? Dr. Locke, what story will you tell us today?’ and on and on the questions, boasting, flattery and begging continues.

Bemused, Tony stands back, wondering why it is again that he’s been asked to come, when he spots a boy, a small boy, in bed, alone by the window, perhaps a lanky 16, or a small 17, staring determinedly outside, not paying any attention to the bedlam taking place in the room. Beside him sits an open sketchbook, and an uncapped pen, it seems that he’s been drawing right until Loki and his cart came in. The drawings are good – an orchid, a half-openened rose, the Basilica of St. Peter, lit by the mid-day sun, a smiling nurse, and finally a drawing of Loki, head bowed, reading from a book. The boy had caught the God of Lies in a rare, unguarded moment, the barest smile playing on his lips, and just the barest hint of joy shining in his half-closed eyes. ‘These are very good,’ he says, to the boy in the bed, nodding to the book. The boy glances, over, shrugs, turns back to watch the clouds. ‘I have another friend that draws, he’s a few years your senior, but I think these might actually be better. But then what do I know? I’m Tony by the way,’ Iron Man introduces himself.

‘I know,’ says the boy. ‘You’re Iron Man. Everyone knows who you are.’

‘Yes, I suppose they do at that,’ says Tony. ‘Comes with the territory you know – ‘ he adds without false modesty, ‘saving the world and all that jazz. Who are you?’

’I'm Peter,’ Peter finally introduces himself.

‘Nice to meet you Peter,’ Tony says, uncertain where to go from there, he turns slightly, trying to figure out how to extricate himself from the uncomfortable conversation and catches sight of Loki, staring at him over Elizabeth’s blonde head, an openly calculating look on his face. Tony nods, accepting the challenge, and turns back to Peter.

‘You in art school, Peter?’ he asks.

‘No, my father thinks art isn’t practical. He sends me to business school, when I'm well enough.’ Peter confides sullenly.

‘I see,’ says Tony, starting slowly to relate. ‘Your father come see you today?’

‘No,’ Peter shrugs, without any visible disappointment or surprise, just a quiet acceptance that should never be heard from a child’s innocent lips. ‘He’s in Hong Kong, on business. He sent me a text. He’ll be back next week, he’ll come see me then.’

‘I see,’ Tony repeats. ‘What about your Mom, Peter?

‘My mother is dead.’

And suddenly it’s like Tony is looking into a mirror, cancer and business school aside. A father too busy to pay attention to his son. A mother gone, and not even an ‘Obie’, however twisted his motivations, to look out for him.

‘Hey Peter, you like ice-cream?’ he asks?

Peter shrugs, non-commitedly. ‘My father says ice-cream is for babies. He says that I should only eat nutritious meals, that will assist in my body’s ability to fight off the disease and strengthen my immune system.’

‘Oh he does, does he? Well then, I guess it’s a dam.. darned good,’ Tony says, catching himself at the last moment , ‘that he’s not here, isn’t it? Hey Doc!’ He calls out to Loki, taking far more pleasure that is perhaps entirely necessary from the momentary flash of irritation flashing across Loki’s face. ‘Two cones over here – what flavour do you like, Peter? I’m a rum and raisin fan myself, I’m guessing that you like chocolate? No? Pineapple? Hrm.. still no huh? Tiger Paw? You might’s well tell me, or I’ll just keep guessing…’

‘Pistachio,’ Peter whispers quietly.

‘Pistachio? For real, kid? No one likes pistachio except little old ladies who just don’t know any better.’

‘I like pistachio,’ Peter repeats a bit more firmly this time around.

‘Alright, alright!’ Tony steps back, hands raised in mock-defence. ‘Doc, can we get a rum and raisin and pistachio over here? Peter, you want anything on it? No huh? Alright. Nothing on mine either then. So Peter,’ Tony asks, after he’s collected their ice cream cones with a wink at Loki. ‘Where'd you see the Basilica of St. Peter?’

‘My father took us to Rome once, a long time ago, before Mother died. I was quite young then still. I don’t remember the rest very clearly, but I remember that.'

Tony's own exploits in Rome, or what he remembers of them, included a great deal of red wine, a borrowed, and subsequently destroyed Austin Martin, and a Russian model by the name of Anna, who spoke no English, and swore eloquently in his ear as he took her repeatedly in every room of his suite.

‘Ya... Rome’s a nice city.’ Tony agrees. ‘So listen, Peter, this friend of mine that draws, I could maybe get him to come by and visit? Maybe you two can compare notes or something?’ Peter smiles, and it’s like the sun coming out of the clouds, his whole face lights up with joy. ‘I’d like that.’

‘Right then.’ Tony nods, and starts to head back towards the door.

‘Hey, Iron Man,’ Peter calls out from across the room, and Tony turns, one eyebrow raised with trademark question. ‘Are you going to come back again too?’

‘Of course I am,’ he says, but he says it to Loki, who stands, one hand on Eric’s shoulder, whispering something urgently in the boy’s ear. When Tony looks over, the God looks up, as if feeling eyes on him, and Tony finds himself momentarily transfixed by the depth of an un-named emotion he sees in the dark green eyes.

With one thing and another, Tony is unable to return to the hospital for the better part of a week, but when he does, he heads directly for the cancer ward. There’s no sign of Loki, but the children seem happy enough to see them.

‘Iron Man, Iron Man, Dr. Locke took us to a baseball game last week, and tomorrow he said we could go to the circus!! Iron Man, Iron Man, the doctors say I’m in remission, and I might be able to go home for a while and see my new baby brother, if the cancer doesn’t come back! Iron Man... Iron Man… Iron Man…’ The questions come pouring in, and Tony parries them as quickly as he can, amused at the idea that it would take Loki’s famous ‘silver tongue’ to keep up with the onslaught.

‘I have a question for you guys, Dr. Locke, all these places he takes you to, and the fireworks and stuff, you guys know how he does that?’ and suddenly, just like that it’s all quiet. Tony looks around, but none of the children will meet his eye, fidgeting with fringes of blankets and pillows.

‘What’s the matter guys? I thought we were pals?’ Tony asks, perching, as he’s seen Loki do before, on the edge of Eric’s bed.

‘We’re not supposed to talk about what Dr. Locke shows to grownups,’ Eric says without lifting his eyes. ‘They won’t believe us, and then they’ll put us in another hospital and send Dr. Locke away.’

‘I see,’ says Tony, as a dreadful realization starts to dawn in his eyes. ‘Did Dr. Locke tell you that that’s what will happen?’

‘Muaha... ’ the kids agree, Elizabeth nodding with particular enthusiasm, Shirley Temple curls bobbing in time.

‘Has Dr. Locke ever…’ Tony flails mentally, searching for a way to bring up a terrifying subject.  
‘Has Dr. Locke.. ever.. umm.. touched you guys?’

‘Oh sure!’ Eric agrees, ‘He touches us all the time. He gives us hugs, and kisses, and when we hurt real bad, he’ll hold our hand, and there will be this green light, and then it doesn’t hurt anymore.’  
‘That’s not quite what I meant,’ Tony starts.

'I know what you mean,' Eric says, and there's a hint of steel, or the will of a child too long in pain beneath the words. 'Dr. Locke would _never_ hurt us. He said that we are _his_ and that he would lay waste to any man that would ever dare harm us.'

Tony’s eyebrows rise in amusement. ‘Lay waste.’ Yup. That sounded like Loki alright. But the question remained – why?

‘I told my Granmama about Dr. Locke,’ Elizabeth confesses quietly, ‘and Granmama said that he must be an angel come from heaven to look after me, cause she prayed so hard for me to get well.’

‘Your Granmama thinks that Dr. Locke is an angel?’ Tony asks incredulously.

‘Ya,’ Elizabeth agrees, ‘he tells us all kinds of stories, and reads us books, and he sings to us sometimes, but I don’t get the words, and he takes us places, and he said that when we die, we're gonna go live with a pretty lady in a magical place, and we'll be able to run and play just like regular kids, and we’re not gonna have to be hooked to machines, or have treatments and nothing will ever hurt again.’

Tony feels a lump crawl into his throat, that hasn’t been there since a cave half-way across the world, where a man named Yinsen gave his life to give him the time to get away.

‘You’re right Elizabeth, that does sound like the kind of thing an angel would do.’

‘How very disappointing it must be for you to learn, Stark,’ a smooth, honey and acid voice sounds behind him. ‘that I am in fact _not_ the monster under these children’s bed you clearly think me to be.’

Tony turns, and is impaled by the fury, the glory and the un-defiant righteous pride in Loki’s gaze, suddenly remembering that Lucifer too, was an angel, renowned for his beauty before his fall. What cuts him deepest is the brief flash of disappointment that vanishes almost before he can make note of it.

‘Have you heard enough, Stark?’ Loki takes a step toward him, his white coat spreading behind him like a pair of gleaming wings. ‘Have you sufficiently allayed yourself of the innocence of my motives, and been reassured that no harm will come to them at _my_ hands?’ Tony nods, silently, distrustful of his voice.

‘Good. Then get out. I think you’ve done quite enough here for one day.’

‘Loki, look I-‘

‘Get out Stark.’ The God steps past him, and in passing Tony thinks that he looks… tired. How can a God look tired? ‘I have neither desire nor patience to deal with your suspicions right at this moment.’

Silently, Tony turns and leaves, glancing behind him as he does, to see Loki taking his place on Eric’s bed, gently brushing his fingers down the boy’s pale cheek, leaving faint traces of green magic in their wake.

There are many things which Anthony Stark does well. He builds machines of mayhem and distraction. He mixes a mean martini, and can play beer-pong like nobody’s business. Years of practice apologizing to Pepper have also made him very very good at saying ‘I’m sorry’. The best way, he’s found through a great deal of trial and error to say ‘I’m sorry, I was an ass’ is with gifts. But what does one give the God of Lies and Mischief who threw you out a window and tried to take over your world? What’s an appropriate way to say ‘I’m sorry I was an ass for thinking that you really are the evil thing that you make yourself out to be and were going to hurt these kids have been through too much already?’ How do tell your enemy that you were wrong? 

‘Jarvis,’

‘Yes sir?’

‘What do you get a God?’

‘Which one, sir? The Mayans felt that their Gods appreciated regular human sacrifices, while the ancient Greeks preferred the more expedient method of chaining virgins to stones.’

‘Ya… but where would you find one in this day and age?’ Tony ponders.

‘A stone, sir?’

‘No, a virgin… wait a minute - I know what I’m going to give him!’ Tony exclaims, eyes alight with the brilliant precursor to yet another bad Stark idea.

‘Who sir?’

‘Loki!’

‘A human sacrifice, sir? I do not know that Director Fury would approve.’

‘No not a human sacrifice - A virgin!’

The next time Tony returns to the hospital he’s greeted by the glacial stare of brilliant green eyes.

‘Stark,’ Loki hisses. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I made a promise Loki,’ Tony smiles broadly, and gently pushes past the un-amused God.

‘You did no such thing!’

‘Now now, I didn’t say it was to you – Hey guys!’ He waves to the children, quiet with concern and anticipation. Their ‘angel’ is upset, and Tony thinks if they were able, they’d pounce on him like a something from ‘Lord of the Flies’. ‘I got a surprise for you! I brought a friend of mine along to see you – Steve?’ 

Tony isn’t good with children. He’s awkward, and stutters and hasn’t a clue as to what to say. Fortunately, he knows someone who doesn’t. Someone who is very very good with children and puppies and old people, for all that he none of those himself.

The best way to apologize, Tony Stark has learned through time and practice is to apologize with a gift. Sometimes however the gift is for someone else.

Tony steps over to Loki, where the God is quietly observing Steve patiently answering questions one at a time, a blue, white and red spangled giant, easily blending in amongst the cacophony of voices.

‘Look… I just wanted to say, I’m sorry, for what I insinuated earlier,’ he starts awkwardly.

‘Why?’ Loki spins, green eyes pinning him to the wall. ‘Have you found cause to suddenly revise your opinion of Odin’s adopted, monstrous son?’

‘Well no.. but I shouldn’t have thought that you’d deliberately hurt those kids either.’

Loki frowns, unconvinced.

‘Look… the kids will be OK with Steve a while, that guy’s got a bigger maternal instinct than an entire Lamaze class… it’s almost lunch-time, let me take you to lunch.’

‘Lunch?’ One eyebrow rises a fraction of an inch.

‘Yes, Loki lunch. A mid-day meal that’s often turned into a social occasion here on Earth.. Midgard, whatever. It’s Lunch Loki. I’m not asking you to marry me for crying out loud.’

Unconvinced Loki glances over to where Steve has started reading a copy of ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ complete with ‘voices’. The children seem utterly captivated, and he turns back to Tony with a shadow of a smile.

‘Very well, but I am on duty. I really shouldn’t leave hospital grounds.’

‘Fine, fine.. we’ll eat in the cafeteria…’ Tony agrees, taking hold of the God’s arm before he realizes what he’s done, and Loki glances down at the engineer’s hand, before glancing back up with that same, inscrutable expression. Tony drops his hand slowly, and licks lips suddenly gone dry. ‘I mean.. that is.. how bad can the food really be?’

Famous last words: ‘What’s the worst that can happen? Don’t worry, I have a plan. How bad can the food really be?’ If there is one thing that hospitals and airplanes have in common, other than too often perfectly healthy people will walk in, only to walk out sick, it’s that the food is designed in such a way to as to encourage one to not linger. Halfway through the cardboard misleadingly advertised as ‘veal tenderloin, Tony gives up and sits staring at his companion. Loki is busy playing with the wilted lettuce of his salad, the light hitting his form and occasionally reflecting from the gold bracelets ringing each wrist. Other than ordering, the God has said said very little.

‘Look, Loki,’ Tony begins, and the Trickster looks up, with eyes far greener than anything than anything lying on his plate. ‘I’m sorry. I.. I just… ‘

‘No need to apologize Stark. I am a monster, you thought the worst. In your position I would be just as protective of my people’s offspring.’ 

‘You’re not a monster,’ Tony objects. ‘At least not so far as those kids are concerned. I just... I don’t know what your game is, but whatever it is… I don’t think you would hurt them.’

Loki nods, and they again sit in uncomfortable silence. Tony looks around, grasping for a topic, finally tapping a finger against the cuff around Loki’s wrist.

‘So what are those? Traditional Asgardian jewelry? Thor doesn’t tend to much by way of adornment,’ he says and immediately curses himself for not thinking.

Loki sighs, and stands, pushing back his plate, and straightening the cuffs of his coat over the bracelets. ‘They were parting gifts from Odin, as constant reminder my place. Good day Stark. Thank you for lunch. I’ll let Captain America know you’ve left.’ And walks away with the majesty of a fallen prince, or a king that was.

And just like that Tony’s audience is over, but the engineer remains sitting, wondering if the skin at the hollow of Loki’s throat, framed by the golden toque that matches the two bracelets, is s sweet and smooth as the cream it so closely resembles.

A week later, he’s in the shop, working – really it's an excuse to not be otherwise social, AC/DC blaring in the background, half-full glass of Scotch on the work bench, when a call comes in.

‘Sir,’ Jarvis’ voice cuts across the screaming lyrics.

‘Sweetheart, I thought I told you never to call me here,’ Tony mutters, struggling with a bolt.

‘I am sorry to disturb you sir, but there is a young lady on the phone.’

‘Jarvis, tell her I’m out. Tell her I’m in Monte Carlo for the weekend. Tell her.. I don’t know Jarvis, make something up. You know the drill. I’m _working_!’

‘Sir, if I am, I strongly suggest that you may wish to speak with this particular young lady. Her name is Elizabeth, and she is calling from-‘

‘St. Mary's Memorial Hospital,’ Tony finishes. ‘Put her through immediately Jarvis. Hold all my calls. Restrict access to the shop until further notice.’

‘Done, sir.’

‘Elizabeth, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘Iron Man?’ the little girl sounds nervous, scared, uncertain, a child not used to making calls to non-family member adults. ‘You have to help us Iron Man.’

‘Elizabeth, what’s the matter? What’s wrong? Has...’ He doesn’t can’t bring himself to ask if Loki has done something horrible. He doesn’t.... he can’t.

‘Iron Man, it’s Dr. Locke,’ Elizabeth says, ‘he hasn’t here to see us in a week, he’s never been gone so long. Never. And no one will tell us where he’s gone, Iron Man, cause we’re just a bunch of kids, but he’s our angel, Iron Man, he’d never leave without saying goodbye... even if he had to go back to Heaven. He’d never do that, Iron Man.’

‘Alright, alright Elizabeth…’ Tony rubs his chin, thinking. Loki could have gone anywhere, maybe he just got bored? But then he remembers the look in the God’s eyes when he looked at Eric, and shakes his head. Fury. Fury would know...

‘Elizabeth, I’ll find him. I’ll find Dr. Locke.’

‘Thank you Iron Man. Just hurry… please.’

‘Jarvis!’

‘Yes sir?’

‘Where is the Great White Hope?’ Tony fires away, packing away tools on the run.

‘Mr. Rogers is in the gym, sir.’

‘Of course he is… put me through, Jarvis. Hey Steve!! I’ll bet you haven’t filled your quota of community service yet for this week – ’

Less than an hour later, Tony’s at the hospital. On the drive down he called Fury, and irritated the Director into screaming at him to stay the hell away from Loki. So SHIELD didn’t have him. According to Thor, Loki cannot leave Midgard until he meets condition set by the Norns. Asking around the hospital, no one has seen Dr. Locke for the past week, no it’s not like him, did call in earlier and said something about coming down with the flu, so no doubt he’s just at home recuperating. No it's wholly against their policy to give out the addresses of hospital staff, but if Iron Man wanted to hand-deliver Dr. Locke a card the children made, then perhaps they can make an exception?

Loki lives, unsurprisingly, in a giant, converted warehouse, almost completely covered in climbing ivy and russet brick.

Tony lifts his hand to knock, but pushing, finds the door to be unlocked. The interior is dark, heavy drapes lining the walls, the surfaces covered in a week long layer of dust. An odd smell hangs in the air, a scent reminiscent of… of an old church, at Christmas. Myrrh. And ozone. Thick and heavy mingling with the dust, it makes Tony sneeze, just then realizing how quiet the cavernous place is. The further in Tony walks, the more imposing the smell becomes, until he has to put a sleeve over his nose, and breathe through his mouth.

‘Loki?’ he calls out. ‘Loki? You in here?’

‘Stark?…’ a sigh, a whisper of the magnificent voice. ‘Stark? What are you doing here?...’

Tony follows the voice to a bedroom, partitioned off by Chinese screens, near pitch black, in spite of the blazing sun outside. The bed stands empty, untouched, but in the corner, surrounded by thickest shadows, squinting, he can just make out the outline of a well-shaped hand, and hint of wrist in gold, resting on the chair’s arm.

‘Stark, why are you here?’

‘The uhhh... kids Loki, Elizabeth called me...’

‘Elizabeth? How... how is she? How did she sound?’ Loki coughs, a wet, hacking sound that makes Tony cringe in sympathy.

‘She sounded fine, how the hell are you? The nurses said you had the flu, but I didn’t think… I didn’t think you Asgardians got sick.’

‘Sick, Stark?’ the bitterness inherent in the laugh hurts near as much as the round of cough following it. ‘Oh, that I should be so fortunate.’

A click, a lamp turns on beside the chair, and Tony takes back a step, in spite himself. Loki looks dead. Or as though he should be. The sleek, shining mane of hair, hangs limp, and tangled over concave cheeks. His skin so pale it could be grey, the pallor accented by the dark rings lying under his eyes, which faded as they are, are still the only hint of colour in the once flawless face. ‘All things come with a price, Stark. Redemption most of all.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really feel like I should be saying something in here about overwhelming support and loving my Beta, and all sorts of wonderful things about the AO3 community, but the cold meds are starting to kick in so... just pretend I did, and it was profound, and lyrical and appropriate in all the many ways.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest thanks once more to my dearest Rikacain for punctuation, inspiration, angst and half-eaten cookies.
> 
> She makes me look real purty.

Half-dead he may appear, but he’s still a God, and Tony’s seen Loki pounded face-first into a concrete floor, and the smug bastard still had the gall to sit up and ask for a drink. Tony doesn’t really want to be here, doesn’t want to be anywhere near Loki, but then he remembers the fear in Elizabeth’s voice, and realizes that no matter what, he is not about to break a promise to a dying, little girl. He had told her that he’d find ‘Dr. Locke’ for her, and he’d be damned, if he was going to leave this house without finding out what the hell Loki’s game was. 

So Tony does what Tony did best. Well second, oh alright... third best. He pours himself a drink – count on Loki to have the ‘good’ stuff sitting around – pulls over a chair and bluffs.

‘Redemption, huh? So what, the guilt of killing all those innocent people finally catching up to you?’

A muscle jumps in Loki’s jaw, and for a second Tony thinks that he’s about to get thrown out a window – again - but the God just quietly takes a sip from a glass that Tony could’ve sworn wasn’t there a moment ago. When Loki looks up again, he no longer looks angry, he just looks tired.

‘Why are you here, Stark? Precisely what is it that you are hoping to provoke me into revealing to you this time? If you would attempt to question me, may I suggest you come back with Ms. Romanoff? Although of the two, you are by far the more decorative, she is considerably better at this sort of thing than you are. Almost, but not quite as good as she actually believes herself to be.’

‘Did you just call me pretty?’ Tony asks, preening in spite of himself. It’s not every day that a _God_ tells you you’re attractive, and considerable as Stark’s ego may be, it hasn’t quite reached _those_ kinds of proportions just yet. Loki simply shrugs, in that his dismissive and effortlessly elegant way, and says nothing. 

‘Right.’ Tony gives himself a mental shake and takes another drink. ‘I… I promised Elizabeth that I would find you. She’s fine, but worried. What the hell did you mean by ‘redemption having a cost’?’ 

‘Precisely what I said. Why did you tell Elizabeth you would find me?’

So... answer for answer. Tony’s played this game before, though not with Loki, and he’s not entirely certain he can win. But damn, it’ll be fun trying. ‘Because she’s a dying little girl and she asked. When was the last time you ate?’

‘I... what?’ For a moment, Loki appears startled.

‘Is that another question? Because really you haven’t answered mine yet, so from where I stand, you still owe me an answer.’ Tony sits back in his chair, giving himself a mental pat on the back. God of Lies, my occasionally shiny metal ass, he thinks. I’ve got you, Loki. I’ve got you.

‘So,’ he repeats. ‘When, was the last time you ate?’

‘I don’t remember.’ Loki answers with surprising frankness, and then asks softly, eyes narrowing with suspicion. ‘Why do you care?’

Why _does_ he care? Tony wonders to himself. Because Elizabeth asked, yes. But he can just as easily go back and tell her that he’d found her ‘Doctor’, but that he was ill and would come back when he was better. Or call Thor and tell him to deal with the mass of complexes masquerading as his brother, or he can just... leave. But then Tony remembers the look in Loki’s eyes when he caught him talking to Peter, that at the time he couldn’t identify, and realizes that he can identify it now. It was understanding. And a compassion born of… In all honesty Tony hasn’t a fucking clue where the hell the madman that tried to take out New York just over a year ago found compassion, but there it was. Loki may well be mad as a box of cats – and if Tony didn’t realize that Bruce is a genius earlier, that one comment would’ve pretty much sealed it – but if anyone can relate to Loki’s mass of ‘Daddy issues’ then it’s Tony, and he can just imagine what an angst-filled little pocket of hell family dinners must be at Odin’s house, and Tony has to push back the chuckle thinking about Asgard’s version of Thanksgiving Dinner – 

_Thor: Loki, would thou please pass the salt?_  
 _Loki: No! You are not my brother!!_

Something of what he’s thinking must show on the inventor’s face, because Loki raises an eyebrow, his look expectant and questioning.

Why does he care? The question still echoes in his mind. He answers without thinking. ‘Because you do. I don’t know why. I don’t know that I really care, and I still don’t trust you further than I can throw you without the suit on, but those kids need you and _they_ do trust you, but you’re in no shape to help as you are. Are you trying to starve yourself to death?’

Loki’s smile is both amused and bitter, and really no one should still look that good half-dead and filthy. ‘I hunger, yes, and while I cannot as you say, starve myself to death, I can weaken to a considerable extent. What was the thought that had so amused you a moment earlier?’

‘Picturing Thanksgiving dinner at your house.’ Tony answers without missing a beat. ‘If you’re hungry, why have you not eaten? Couldn’t you just –’ he makes a motion with his hand approximating ones he’s seen Loki do when the God was performing tricks for the children, or throwing balls of plasma at his head.

Loki stares at Tony’s eyes, and the engineer thinks that he’ll never be able to look at anything green again without remembering this moment for the rest of his life. ‘I have not eaten because I have neither the strength to stand nor the energy to summon food to me.’

‘Oh…’ Tony says quietly, realizing what it must have cost this proud, egotistical creature to come even that close to asking for help. ‘You like omelets?’ 

Two hours and three, four-eggs omelets later, Loki is looking marginally better and Tony has discovered three important things: 

1\. Loki has a remarkably well stocked fridge  
2\. For a lean guy, Loki can put food away like nobody’s business.  
3\. Loki can make anything look like porn, including daintily cutting up his ‘hey I found this in the fridge, I think I’ll throw it in’ otherwise known as a ‘Stark Special Kitchen Sink’ omelet, and putting it into his mouth.

Tony watches the God cut up his food, pass it through his lips, chew and swallow, mesmerized as the omelet vanishes between those perfect, pink lips, and eventually makes it down the long column of Loki’s throat. At one point he stopped staring long enough to make coffee, and by turning catches a glimmer in the Trickster’s eyes that screams louder than words – ‘I know just how badly I’m messing with you, and I’m loving every minute.’ 

By the time the last bit of egg is gone from his plate and Tony has finished his fourth cup of coffee, Loki is starting to look more like his usual self. Tall, pale and regal. Gorgeous.

‘So,’ Tony says, leaning casually on Loki’s counter, as the God pats his lips down with a linen napkin – count on Loki to have _real_ napkins in his cupboard, no disposable paper for the fallen prince of Asgard. ‘I’m pretty sure you still owe me an answer – how’d you find yourself in this situation?’

‘I believe, Stark,’ Loki counters, ‘you will find that it is you who owes me an answer – your last question was ‘do you like omelets?’ and although I must admit that yours are quite passable, they have not won you an answer.’

‘You could always just tell me.’ Tony surprises himself by saying, and judging from the slight widening of pupil, Loki is as well.

‘I suppose I could... just tell you.’ Between one heartbeat and the next the God makes a decision. ‘What do you know of Magic, Stark?’

‘Not nearly as much as I would like.’ Tony admits. ‘Why? Are you giving lessons?’

‘Not entirely. Only so far as I need for you to grasp the concept. One of your more clever scientists,’ Loki says this in the same mildly-surprised tone as one would discussing a clever dog performing a trick. ‘Had once theorized that energy = mass. He was _almost_ correct. Energy = Everything. Your science may one day evolve to realize that, but until it does… Magic, is one’s ability to manipulate the energy inherent in All things, and bend it to one’s will. It takes a great deal of concentration and study and –’

‘So what you’re saying then,’ Tony interrupts, rapt in excitement of finding an unexpected area of sudden interest, ‘is that all those spells you and Strange and that Amora bitch are always muttering are essentially just formulas, so that you keep what you’re doing straight in your heads?’

‘No.’ Loki says, too quickly and without any sort of serious conviction, like he can’t be bothered to spin a believable lie, and Tony doesn’t bother hiding the smirk on his face. ‘Did you want to continue interrupting with your clever assumptions, or shall I continue answering your question?’

‘Oh no, no, please do continue,’ Tony waves his hand in a magnanimous gesture, ignoring Loki’s scowl, wondering again why it is the Trickster is bothering to explain all of this to a ‘mere mortal’, when he realizes that the reason Loki is telling him this is because he _gets it_. As ecstatic as Tony was to have found Bruce Banner, with whom to discuss his theories, he’d known all along that he couldn’t have been the _only_ one who could understand the concepts burning in his mind, even if the others were few and far between. But Loki’s been _all alone_ for his entire life, however many millennia that might be, with no one to talk about his life’s greatest work. Unexpectedly Tony found himself once again feeling sorry for this man… God... whatever. Right up to the moment he remembers that Loki is the one responsible for Phil’s name being on a memorial of a hospital wing, as opposed to a handful of Captain America cards, and his jaw tightens in silent resolve. If Loki makes note of his change in expression, he makes no mention of it, continuing to explain.

‘A clever mage, if he’s sufficiently trained and careful, can manipulate energy to virtually any end, with the possible exception of creating life or restoring life. That is a Law laid down by the Norns when Yggdrasil Herself was but a seed. No mage dare break it. The energy for this work can come from any source – the air around us, the earth, a flame, even the body of another –‘ Loki grins wickedly, ‘though most mages are not powerful enough to draw from sources outside themselves, relying solely on what they are able to hold within.’

Something in the arrogant way that Loki says ‘most’ snags Tony’s interest. ‘But _you_ can, right?’ 

‘I can,’ Loki nods. ‘I could. Before Odin bound my skills with these... shackles.’ Loki holds out his slender wrists for the engineer’s inspection, gracefully raising one to brush the toque surrounding his neck, and Tony very nearly has to restrain himself from stroking the ivory line of skin between shirtsleeve and the golden cuff that’s suddenly taken on the slimy glisten of prison irons. ‘So now I may rely only on what I can hold within my flesh.’ Tony blinks, trying to clear the image of being held within Loki’s pale and perfect flesh.

Stark nods, feigning understanding. ‘I guess all those magic ice-cream cones and fireworks caught up with you, huh?’

Loki blinks a moment before laughing, his laughter deep and genuine, and Tony decides right there and then that he likes, and wants to hear more of it. ‘Oh no, Stark, such childish illusions take no greater effort than crossing the street, or breathing. Besides which – I did not _create_ the ice-cream. I have a standing arrangement with a small sweet shop not far from here. They keep their freezer well stocked, and don’t ask questions when the tubs vanish without mortal assistance. No... it’s true magic which requires a greater expenditure of power than my feeble shell is able to contain.’ The bitterness seeps back in Loki’s voice and Tony finds himself missing the more ‘genuine’ Loki he saw a moment earlier.

‘What’s a ‘true magic’, Loki?’ he asks quietly.

‘How did you come by the glowing disk in your chest, Stark?’ Loki responds and Tony drops his eyes, unwilling, or possibly unable to tell Loki about the desert Obie and Yinsen.

‘Ahh… I see our delightful discourse has come to an end. I thank you for coming to look in on me Stark, even though you had only done it at Elizabeth’s request. Should you see my children in the next day or two, if you would do me one last favour and relay my greeting, and tell them all that I shall be back very very shortly. I suspect even before Eric leaves the hospital.’

Tony wants to say that he would have probably come even without Elizabeth asking, had he known Loki needed help. He wants to ask how Loki knows that Eric will be leaving the hospital. He wants to apologize without quite knowing what he’s apologizing for.

Loki takes advantage of his unease to usher him to the door with a polite, if chilly smile. ‘Goodbye Stark. Give my regards to Mr. Rogers. Peter can be quite a handful at times, I wish him luck.’ And quickly shuts the door in Tony’s flabbergasted face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is my addiction. Thanks in advance :D


	7. Chapter 7

The next time Tony returns to the hospital, he finds the cancer ward in a state of joyful chaos, full of confused, but seemingly happy doctors, enviously cheerful children and a gaggle of tall, lanky Nords, whom the engineer assumes are Eric’s parents and family members, all milling around Eric’s bed, laughing and talking over one another, ignoring the doctors, nurses and generally infecting everyone, almost in spite of themselves, with their unabashed elation. Tony stands in the open doorway, unwilling to interrupt and unintentionally draw attention away from the smiling, pale little boy sitting in the middle of his hospital bed. All of the connecting drips and wires that were connected to his frail little body, the last time Tony had seen him, are gone and he suspects this is to be 'blamed' for his family's joy.  
‘It’s a miracle, Mr. Stark.’ He glances over, nodding politely to the chief of staff, a bearded, balding man with the slowly developing paunch of a former athlete. ‘In my 40 years of practicing medicine, I haven’t seen anything like it. The cancer is simply… gone. No sign of it. Nothing. Just goes to prove – the more we learn about the human body, the more we realize just how little we actually know. The organs will naturally require some time to fully recuperate, but otherwise…’ the older man shrugs, admitting his ignorance. ‘Eric is a perfectly healthy, if somewhat under-developed little boy. Though I’ve no doubt that that is also something which will change with time.’

In his bed, the ‘healthy little boy’ is having an argument with a blue-eyed woman Stark assumes to be Eric’s mother. ‘But I can’t leave yet!! Dr. Locke promised he’d be back in time. He promised, Mom!!’

‘And what have I told you about promises, Eric?’ An all too familiar, bittersweet and coarse, like honey and rock salt voice says from behind Tony. He smiles, shaking his head in recognition, the perfectly timed entrance that is as much Loki as the flawless cut of his linen suit. ‘If you absolutely must make one – ’

‘Always keep it.’ Eric finishes, his smile lighting up the room. ‘Hello Dr. Locke, I told my Mom you’d come, she didn’t believe me, but I _knew_ you’d come.’

‘Of course Eric, I would not miss seeing you off for all of the world.’ Loki slips past Tony, leaving the scent of ice and myrrh lingering in the air behind him. Perching on the edge of Eric’s bed, Loki slowly runs his hand over Eric’s smooth skull, smiling gently. ‘You remind me of a woman I once knew, who also lost all of her hair, but on you, the look works. How do you do,’ he asks, holding out his hand to Eric’s parents, lips that defined temptation long before Eve ever dreamed of apples, curling into a welcoming smile and Tony swallows down an unexpected stab of jealousy, watching the couple stammer, tripping over their tongues, thanking Loki for taking such good care of their son, and how kind he has been, and how much Eric has been telling them of the doctor's wonderful stories and how very grateful they are for everything that he has done, and if there is anything, _anything_ at all that they can do, the father emphasizes, while Loki smiles Lucifer’s humble smile, and assures them that no, it was all his pleasure and what a fighter Eric is, and that they should both be so very proud.

‘Dr. Locke,’ a girl whose name Tony hadn’t yet caught asks from across the room. A hand-knitted bonnet is perched on her head, hiding her own obvious baldness. ‘What happened to her? The woman who lost her hair?’

‘Well, Sylvia,’ Loki turns in his seat, voice picking up his tale-spinner’s cadence, ‘as it so happens, a God negotiated a deal with the finest craftsmen of that Realm to make her hair of spun gold.’

An ‘Oooooh’ of wonder flows through the children, before another young voice pipes up. ‘So she ended up wearing a wig? Just like we do?’

Loki laughs, deep and rich, head tilting back baring that flawless, smooth as cream neck, that looks like it was made for worship, and Tony surprises himself with very much wanting to. ‘Yes Elizabeth, very much like that.’

Feeling a sudden need for air, and needing to look someplace – anyplace – other than the perfect line of Loki’s neck, Tony glances around the room, almost desperately searching for a different place to rest his eyes. He eventually lands on Peter, staring at the happy family like a man left too long in the desert, looking at a glass of water, hands clenched tightly in his lap, sketchbook abandoned and flipped open sitting next to him. Tony starts to cross the room, if only to say hello, when a lean man, in a pale grey suit that looks like it costs almost as much as some of the outfits he’d bought for Pepper over the years, almost rudely pushes past him walking straight to Peter’s bed. The boy looks up in amazement, mouth actually framing the little ‘o’ of surprise.

‘Dad... I... I thought you were in Hong Kong...’ Peter starts.

‘I was,’ Peter’s Dad responds, pulling over a chair and sitting down beside Peter., ‘but I got a call from one of your doctors, and they told me that you were doing so well that you could take some time off your treatments. I thought maybe we could take a trip together? Maybe Rome?...’

‘For real, Dad?’ Peter’s young voice brims with enthusiasm before harsh reality kicks back in. ‘But.. but Dad what about the firm? And school.. if I have a few weeks off, maybe I should work on the SATs or something…’

‘Why don’t you let me worry about that?’ The man says, standing up, putting his arms around Peter in an awkward semblance of a hug. ‘Get your things together, I need to speak with your nurses about making some arrangements.’

Tony turns his head, glancing over at Loki, wanting to ask the God if he knew, if he arranged this, and realizes that Loki himself is watching the scene unfold, away from the chaos of Eric’s boisterous family, the longing on his face every bit as raw as the yearning in Peter’s voice moments earlier. Tony drops his eyes, before Loki can catch him looking, knowing he’d never be forgiven for seeing the Trickster in such an unguarded moment.

An hour later, and Tony’s in the cafeteria drinking cup after cup of horrible coffee, wondering what the hell he was doing down there, hoping to catch sight of a prickly, self-centered, slightly psychotic, and wholly un-predictable chaos deity, when he could be home ‘tinkering’ with the latest version of the suit, reviewing some supposedly much-needed paperwork for Pepper, or at the very least hanging out someplace where he could get a better cup of coffee, when the deity in question quietly slipped into the chair facing him, setting down his cup of bad coffee.

Away from the kids Loki looked tired, the rings under his eyes a glaring flaw of an imperfection in an otherwise flawless diamond. Tony finds himself oddly flattered that the consummate liar would let him witness to such an obvious frailty, and immediately starts to question Loki’s motivations. The God takes a sip of the horrible coffee, winces, and waves his hand and smiles with his second drink. ‘There used to be a lovely little cafe in Florence that would make my cappuccino just the way I liked it. I think when this is all over I shall have to visit again, see if I can’t find one similar.’ He says without any real conviction, sounding a bit like one of the children who never expect to be able to leave the hospital.  
Tony holds out his own cup. ‘You mind? I think I’d rather be drinking that tar Bruce calls coffee than well _this_ tar.’ He finishes with a chuckle. The arch of Loki’s eyebrow speaks volumes, but he obliges nonetheless. After the first drink Tony agrees that the cappuccino is pretty damn excellent.

‘So,’ the inventor starts, uncertain precisely of what to say or how to say it. ‘Florence. Go there often, do you?’

Loki’s chuckle, low in his throat, is smoother than the hot milk in their cappuccinos. ‘Not as often as I’d like. For a while it was quite nearly a second home to me, but not for a while now. There was a misunderstanding concerning my involvement with the assassination of one of the Medici’s and considering they ran Florence at the time, the wisest course of action was for me to depart with due haste.’ 

Tony does a brief calculation. If his recollection of frequently missed, ignored and otherwise not paid to attention history courses is even remotely accurate, the Medici’s rose to power in the early 15th century and maintained that power until sometime in the 18th. He does a quick double—take of the young man seated across the table from him, calmly sipping his cappuccino. Loki really _is_ a God. A virtually immortal, otherworldly being, and it’s his casual use of the names that most only know through the paintings and frescos by half-forgotten artists, rather than his more obvious uses of overt power, that finally bring that fact home for Tony Stark.

‘Wait a sec,’ he finally says. ‘The Medici were around back in what… the 15th century? You and Thor didn’t start ‘visiting’ until just a few years ago. What about that math doesn’t make sense?’

Both brows raised in surprise, Loki considers the ‘genius’ in front of him a moment. ‘Surely you cannot be _that_ ignorant, Stark. Asgardians have been coming to Midgard for aeons, almost since your people finally came down from the trees and began to become, interesting. Where did you think all the legends of Asgard and Odin and Thor came from? Surely you did not for a moment take credit for humans being so clever as to have _invented_ us?’ Loki laughs again, a mocking, cutting laughter that Tony is all too familiar with from previous battles. ‘While Thor and Odin were always more than happy to spend their time in the bars and brothels of your world, I have always held preferences for the more cerebral pursuits and Florence, at its height was _the_ birthplace of what you consider civilization. Not to mention that once stripped of brocade and pretense, the Florentines had quite a number of other considerably less cerebral pastimes which were also, rather to my liking.’ Loki adds with a smile that is anything but innocent, almost bordering on lewd.

‘I... I see.’, says Tony, almost wishing that he had in fact seen. ‘So... nice work with Eric. I don’t know what you did, but the kid’s back up like nothing was ever wrong.’

‘What is it that you think I did, Stark?’ Loki asks quietly, looking up from his cup, eyes the green of an Irish hillside.

‘Well, I just thought… Back at your place, you'd insinuated...' Tony pauses, considering Loki through narrowed eyes. The God _had_ done something. And Eric _is_ better, which should be the only thing that meant anything, but that would be too easy, and nothing about Loki is ever this easy. 'You never said 'Eric'... What did you do, Loki?' he asks quietly.

‘I did nothing for Eric, Stark.,’ Loki says. ‘Except possibly point out the flaws in some of his treatments to my fellow physicians, and make a few suggestions to his flesh about how it should rid itself of the invader.’

‘I see,' Tony nods. 'Who _did_ you help then? Something drained the life from you, I sure as hell didn't imagine you looking like a left-over from last year's zombie-walk.'

Loki glances down, rubbing a hand over his eyes in an all too human gesture. ‘I am more tired than I believed myself to be to be easily caught out by the likes of you.’ The God draws a deep breath before continuing. ‘It was not Eric I had helped. It was Peter.’

‘Peter?’ Tony asks incredulously ‘But… but he’s still sick?’

‘Yes,’ Loki agrees. ‘And eventually the poison eating at him will kill him, but I bought him time that was very desperately needed. Time to be with those that love him.’ Loki’s mouth twists into a self-depreciating grimace, and Tony resists the urge to wrap his arms around him and hold him tight like Pepper had once long ago held him when all he believed to be true and good in the world came crashing down in a rain of glass and twisted metal.

‘Thor loves you, you know.’ He says instead.

‘Do not speak of what you do not know, Stark.’ Loki snarls, standing and checking the pager on his hip, as if he’d received a call. ‘I’m needed.’

Tony stands, but Loki is gone, moved out of reach on longer legs and deceptively slow stride, and he’s not about to go chasing him down the hall like some love-struck teenager, regardless of what the little voice in the back of his head is telling him. 

That night he storms into Thor’s rooms, to find the Thunder God busily attempting to run Mario through yet another gauntlet, to once again rescue a princess who really, by now, ought to know better.  
‘Thor, we need to talk.’ Tony says, flopping down on the couch next to his friend.

‘Of course, Anthony Stark!’ Thor booms, all attention focused on the screen. ‘Just let me finish this one level…’

‘Jarvis, cut power to Thor’s television.’

The TV goes as black as Thor’s expression.

‘Anthony Stark, do you know how long it took me to conquer the – ‘ A frowning Thor is a terrible thing. Not only do you feel like the monster that kicked a puppy, but you are given the sudden realization that you are the monster that kicked a puppy that wields a magical hammer and can bring down skyscrapers with lightning. Tony however, is not impressed.

‘Thor, we need to talk about your brother.’ He says, watching the emotions play out on Thor’s honest face – love, concern, anger, finally resting on a kind of hopeless acceptance.

‘I will admit, I have been staying away from the hospital at Director Fury’s request, and have not been paying as close attention to Loki as I should have.’ He admits with a deep sigh. ‘What is it that he has done now?’

‘It’s not anything _he’s_ done, it’s something _you_ haven’t.’

‘I don’t think I understand,’ Thor frowns, and in the distance there is the warning sound of thunder.

‘Thor… Loki’s lonely. No, no, really, hear me out on this one – ‘ Tony holds up his hands to ward off Thor’s reaction. ‘At the hospital today, there was this kid, who’s going home with his Dad for a while. Now the guy sounds like a bit of a prick, if you ask me, but he’s the kid’s Dad, and he seems to genuinely love him, and they’re going to go to Rome, which is completely beside the point, but you should have seen Loki’s face watching the two of them together. It’s like he would have given ANYTHING, and I do mean ANYTHING to have someone hug him like that guy hugged his kid.’

‘You do not understand Anthony, my brother knows I love him. It is he who turns away from us at every available opportunity.’

Tony shakes his head. ‘No Thor, I’m starting to think that maybe _you_ don’t understand. Loki doesn’t think that he deserves that kind of love. He thinks that he's the monster that hides under your bed and steals Asgardian children. You don’t love monsters. You kill them.’

‘My brother is no monster!’Thor roars, causing the windows to shake in their reinforced frames.

‘I agree,’ Tony responds, seemingly unshaken. ‘Now all you have to do is convince _him_ of that. Talk to him. Bring him a cappuccino or something. Good night, Thor.’

The engineer stands, patting his friend on the shoulder in passing, his last glimpse of Thor the God is staring mutely at the television, as if he will find all the answers to his questions in its dark screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wish to learn more about the House of Medici, an Italian family of considerable significance in the city state of Florence between the 14th and 18th centuries, Wikipedia is your friend. The assassination Loki refers to actually did happen, I just chose to use it for my own nefarious purposes.
> 
> PS There have been a few cases of cancer 'spontaneously' vanishing, proving that we really don't know nearly as much about the power of the human mind, and belief as we'd like.
> 
> As always, I thank my wonderBeta, without who's invaluable assistance and support I would look extremely foolish.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	8. Chapter 8

Tony dreads going back the hospital. He avoids it like most will avoid trips to the dentist. He avoids it like calls from Pepper when he’s forgotten a meeting, or a conference or yet another gala. He avoids it like an unpleasant situation that he doesn’t want to deal with until he can’t avoid it anymore, because it’s Sunday and he promised.

Against all expectations he doesn’t find Loki in the cancer ward, but he does find a few mutli-coloured paper lanterns still hanging here and there from the edges of hospital beds, and the kids look happier than normal, so he had to have just missed him. His relief however lasts only as long as the few hours he spends chatting with the kids, telling them about the planned upgrades to his new suit, the latest, crazy villain and promises of asking Natasha if she’ll come visit the next time, because as the new girl – Sylvia – says ‘She’s a cool chick that kicks all the boy’s combined behinds’, and having been on the end of one of a few of those ‘kickings’ during training, Tony really can’t argue. The moment he steps out of the ward, he spots Loki, arms folded across his chest, calmly leaning against the opposite wall, where Tony can’t possibly _not_ see him, and seeing him pretend that Loki is there for any reason other than deliberately waiting for him.

So he does the only thing he can do. He reminds himself of who he is, plasters on his brightest smile and leans against the wall next to Loki. ‘Fancy running into you here. You know, if we keep meeting like this, and people _will_ talk.’

‘Thor came to see me.’ Loki says without any sort of preamble.

‘Oh?’ Tony says uncommittedly.

‘It’s the first time since my return to Midgard that he has intentionally sought me out.’ Loki continues, arms still folded and staring straight ahead. Tony reminds himself that this is a God, and ‘collared’ or not, he can still tear him apart without really raising a sweat, and really he should have worn the suit, if only for the kids. ‘I don’t suppose you would know anything about that, would you Stark?’

‘Uhh... what makes you think I would know anything about Thor coming to visit? Maybe he just missed you? Brotherly love and all that.’

Loki ignores the question, continuing as if Tony had not spoken . ‘He asked me about my work here. The children. If there was anything that he could do to help. He offered to visit, see them, not necessarily me. I don’t suppose you would know anything about that?’

Tony shrugs as convincingly as possible.

‘He brought me a cappuccino, Stark.’And Tony turns at the wonder in Loki’s voice. The most coldly manipulative creature Tony has ever had the dubious pleasure of meeting, has a look in his eyes like that of a little kid that’s spent all his life being told that Santa doesn't exist, only to run face-to-face with jolly old St. Nick himself, crawling out of his fireplace. ‘I just thought you should know.’ Loki pushes back from the wall in one long, graceful movement and starts to walk down the hall, hands casually stuffed in the pockets of his slacks.

It’s not a thank you. It’s not an admission that he wanted or even enjoyed speaking with Thor. But it’s a start.

‘Loki,’ Tony calls out, and the God turns slowly, looking expectant.  
‘Have dinner with me.’ Tony surprises himself by asking, and is even more surprised when after a momentary pause Loki agrees.

_______________________________________________

Where does one take a God for dinner? More importantly, where do you take a sophisticated, complicated, ancient God that wears Italian couture like Valentino had him specifically in mind when he first began designing, and walks the streets of New York as if he owns them. You take him to Giovanni’s.

When Giovanni’s opened nearly 10 years earlier, in the predominantly Jewish, lower east side replacing a run-down pawn shop and laundry, the locals laughed and said it would never work. When the owner, Giovanni, bought out the remainder of the building, gutted the interior and rebuilt it, bringing the charm of the Piazza del Popolo - People's Plaza - to the heart of New York, they peeked out their windows in curiosity. When Giovanni, against all reason and business sense, pronounced, that the restaurant would be closed on Saturdays, out of respect for his neighbours, those neighbours nodded their approval, and said that maybe this 'goy' might possibly, have something after all. When Giovanni further raised the stakes by bringing in a 4 Star Michelin chef to run his kitchen, New York noticed, and one by one the important critics, fellow restauranteurs and food-writers paid homage to the altar of Giovanni’s table. Since then Giovanni’s has proven to be the exception to the fickle New York rule, maintaining a steady patronage, with reservations booked for weeks, if not months in advance. But not if you were Iron Man, Tony Stark.

Although Giovanni’s was booked solid, there were always a few tables ‘held back’ for the ‘select’ clientele, and Giovanni’s would be delighted to accommodate Mr. Stark, as Tony learned when he called to make the reservation himself, not trusting Pepper to not turn the ‘not-date’, into something that it clearly was not. Not a date. Not at all. It is just a dinner with an old... old... something. Even when he changes three times, going from suit to jeans and T-Shirt to everything in between, finally settling on his signature mix of the two – suit jacket over jeans and vintage Beatles shirt – it is still, without a doubt, decidedly, not a date.

He keeps repeating ‘not a date’ in his head, a silent mantra against whatever the night may bring. The night brings Loki, exquisite and effortlessly elegant in a black tailored suit of the thinnest, finest wool, over a dark green, brushed silk shirt that made Tony’s fingers itch. He smiles toothily at Tony, slipping in easily in the passenger’s seat, and Tony silently curses his short-sightedness in choosing something slick and Italian, for all that it fit the theme of the evening, when the scent of myrrh and spice hit him, making his head swim with the memory of a kiss against the hospital wall.

Beside him, close enough to touch, Loki smiles knowingly, saying nothing, like he can read what’s taking place inside Tony’s head.

‘I hope you like Italian,’ Tony says, in an effort to keep the conversation light, or really, just make conversation.

‘You will need to be more specific, Stark’ Loki says teasingly. ‘There are so _many_ fine Italian pleasures to enjoy.’

He’s flirting, Tony thinks. Is he flirting with me? But Loki flirts as easily as he breathes, as easily as he runs a spear through a friend's chest, and with equally as much commitment or remorse.

‘Food. Italian food. There’s this restaurant, it’s pretty good, or so I’ve been told, called Giovanni’s, you know it?’

‘I’ve heard of it,’ Loki shrugs.

They spend the rest of the drive in silence, Loki lazily staring out the window, one hand tapping on a wool clad thigh, Tony trying to focus on the drive, and not on the long fingers drumming an unheard beat.

The parking lot of Giovanni’s is full, but Tony slips the valet a fifty and walks away, confident that his ‘Baby’ will be well looked after.

The interior is dim, candles lighting the delicate patio tables and chairs, a wrought iron staircase winding through the multi-level, open concept, broken only by the walls formed of living, hanging plants, and delicate stone fountains. The walls are tastefully decorated with paintings and frescoes hung on the bare brick.

A tall, dark-haired, statuesque woman stands at the maître d's desk, calmly surveying the gathering crowd. Dressed in a long white, off-the-shoulder gown, hair braided, and piled in a heavy crown on her head, the woman looks like she could herself have just stepped down from one of the frescoes, like Athena newly born from the split in Zeus’ head. Tony casts a side-glance at his companion, suddenly wondering how many of the myths might actually be true, and if other Gods walk, unrecognized amongst them.

A few feet closer, and he can tell the woman is not as young as he had initially estimated, likely in her early 40’s, the faint lines at the corners of her almond eyes, and the light sprinkling of silver in the wrist-thick braid encircling her noble head only highlighting her extraordinary beauty. The maître d turns to Tony and smiles.

‘Welcome to Giovanni’s, signor Stark.’ Her voice is low, seductive, the faint Italian accent weaving through it could quite possibly be real, and Tony smiles in spite of himself. ‘Your table –’ the woman continues and spots Tony’s companion, hands tucked into pockets hovering patiently behind his left shoulder.

‘Dottore!! Caro mio!!’ The woman exclaims, and wraps long arms around Loki’s neck, kissing him enthusiastically on both cheeks. Surprisingly, the God allows it, even going so far to return the hug. ‘But it has been too long since you have come to see us! My poor husband, he starts to think that perhaps you have lost your love for his cooking. Or is it perhaps me you do not wish to see?’

The stunning creature frowns, a look calculated to break men’s hearts and it would seem that this once Loki is no exception.

‘Carmen, cara…’ Loki catches the woman’s – Carmen’s – elegant and ringless hands in his own, planting a kiss on each one. ‘Forgive me, please, you know how very busy I get am at the hospital. Had I any say in the matter at all, I would eat here every night, and my tailor would curse and bless you in the same breath, since I would require a whole new wardrobe. Please, will you find it in your heart to forgive me?’ The look Loki returns could melt the glaciers themselves, but Carmen it appears is made of sterner stuff.

‘You are the very devil, Dottore,’ Carmen steps back, Loki’s hand still captured in her own, and spreads his arms, tsking as she does. ‘You are already too skinny, and you have lost weight, again. Don’t think that I cannot tell this, for all your tailor's clever patterning. It is for the good though – you know how my Giovanni loves to feed you. Sophia!’ A younger, less elegantly dressed, slightly shorter version of Carmen pokes her head in from from behind a statue of Venus. 

‘Si, mama?’

‘Sophia, per favore, tell your father the Dottore has come to see us. And make sure that you tell him that Signor Stark is with him – he should make them something special. I will seat you at our finest table, si?’ The last directed to Tony who has been watching, amused to the extreme by the little scene unfolding in front of him.  
‘Signora, what man could possibly resist such a charming hostess?’ Tony asks, and bows over Carmen’s hand.

‘There may be hope for you yet, Stark.’ Loki murmurs appreciatively.

‘Shhhh!! Don’t tell Pepper.’ Tony whispers back just as theatrically. ‘She’s convinced I’m hopeless. It leaves her with fewer expectations, and makes my life infinitely easier.’

They follow Carmen to a secluded corner that looks to have been built into a grotto, surrounded by waterfall and draping plants. After assuring them that Giovanni would be out shortly to greet them, Carmen departs finally allowing Tony to ask the question burning on his tongue since they set foot in the place.

‘So, you’ve 'heard' of it huh?’

Loki doesn’t even pretend to look the least bit embarrassed. ‘I had in fact heard of ‘Giovanni’s’ repeatedly. On the news, from fellow doctors. From you just moments earlier. You never asked if I frequented the place, or knew those who owned it.’

‘Uh ha… somehow I think you do more than just frequent,’ Tony says dubiously.

‘It’s not what you think, Stark.’

‘Dottore!!’ A booming voice, more suited to singing opera than calling names startles Tony. A slightly balding, barrel chested man in a spotless chef’s jacket, nearly runs at Loki enveloping him in a vast hug. ‘When my Carmen told me that you have come, I could not believe it! Months it has been since you have last come to see us. Months!!’ Giovanni exclaims, echoing his wife’s sentiment. ‘And now you sit in the dining room like the rest of the patroni, you do not even come into the kitchen to see me. Dottore,’ Giovanni’s exquisite voice lends itself beautifully to the guilt that an only an Italian tenor could ever properly convey. ‘Why must you hurt me so?’

‘Forgive me, Giovanni,’ Loki pats the considerably shorter man on the back. ‘I have been busy, and I had thought under the circumstances,’ he extends his hand, gesturing to Tony sitting across the table from him.

‘Nonsense!! Any friend of the great Dottore Locke would know what an honour it is for the chef to invite them to sit in his kitchen. Come, I will feed you, and you will tell me what it is that has kept you so very busy that you cannot even come see your old friends.’

Which is how, at the end of the night, after a seven course meal that seems to take hours, and far too many glasses of an excellent red wine, Tony Stark finds himself sitting at the chef’s table, of one of the premiere restaurants in New York city, surrounded by a Norse God, a four-star Michelin chef, and an Oscar-winning, former actress who was once considered to hold the greatest qualities of both Audrey Hepburn and Sophia Loren. He doesn’t quite recall what was served or even for that matter eating any of it. He recalls that dishes were brought and taken away. He recalls the ongoing encouragements to ‘Mangi! Mangi!’ from both Giovanni and Carmen. He recalls most vividly the smile on Loki’s face watching him struggle with his angel-hair pasta, and the effortless way in which Loki twirls his fork, without missing a single strand. He recalls seeing the unfamiliar expression on the God’s face – he thinks it might have been happiness.

‘Oh, it was quite the scandal of the day,’ Carmen confides, smiling at her husband with extreme and obvious fondness over a glass of wine. ‘I met Giovanni on the set of my second film – I was reprising the immortal Elizabeth Taylor’s role of Cleopatra, and he was just starting out as a restauranteur. He was catering the production, and we were between takes. I remember, I had walked over to see if he had any salads, and he took one look at me and said, 'You are too skinny.' Well I was shocked – no one had _ever_ said such a thing to me before. And then he said –’  
‘I said,’ Giovanni says, taking his wife’s hand and kissing it gently. ‘You are too skinny. I want you to let me feed you, for as long as we both shall live.’

‘And so you have, my love.’ Carmen says, kissing her husband, causing him to blush soundly.

‘So what am I missing then?’ Tony frowns, reminding himself again that this was not a date, that he should not be so relaxed and comfortable, and that was most definitely not Loki's knee rubbing the side of his leg. 'Where's the scandal?’

‘Oh but such a thing was simply not done in that time. For an actress of Carmen's stature to have gone off with an unimportant little caterer?' Giovanni exclaims.

'And the picture, she was never finished,’ Carmen says, ‘I ran away with Giovanni that very night. The director, the producers, my agent, they were all terribly upset. The public, they said, needed to see that I was not just another flash in the pan. But I, I did not care. I had finally found a man willing to feed me, who would not care if I put in a few extra pounds,' she runs a slender hand along her perfect waist, 'and that to me was worth more than all the Oscars in the world.  
But enough about us – how are you, Dottore? Are they still running you so very ragged at that hospital? You must find time to come to dinner next week, si? The children, they will all be home – Juliano, he will be back from Madrid, and I know how much you enjoy the little ones, and they would all very much love to see you. Lucia, she has even hinted that she is bringing her new girlfriend home.’ Carmen nods significantly.

‘Oh?’ Loki raises one delicate eyebrow. ‘So she and... what was the name of the last one? Deborah? Have parted ways at last?’

‘Oh no, Dottore!’ Giovanni laughs ‘Deborah was two girlfriends ago. Michelle is was most recent conquest. My girl, she is as much of a heart-breaker as her mother was in her day.’ The chef says proudly.

‘That’s a shame,’ Loki murmurs. ‘I rather liked Deborah. She was… interesting, and considerably more clever than that.. what was her name? Cathi, with an 'i'’ Loki tosses his hair in the perfect parody of a brainless idiot, and Tony nearly spits wine out his nose, inhaling at the last moment with the practiced ease of a born alcoholic.

‘And I was fond of Michelle, but it is not up to us to decide who will make our Lucia happy, it is up to Lucia,’ Carmen says protectively. ‘I just want my girls happy. Have you heard, Dottore? Well no of course not, you have not come to see us, you hateful man, Carlo, our youngest, he has been accepted to medical school. He too wants to be a doctor, just like the man who saved his papa.’ Carmen reaches out taking hold of Giovanni’s hand. ‘When I think of what could have happened had you not been there…’ her glorious eyes brim over with unshed tears.

‘Amora mia,’ the chef smiles. ‘No tears, si? This is a happy occasion – our friend has come back, and he has brought his companion to meet us. We should be celebrating, not crying. This is a time for joy!’

Something in the way that Giovanni says ‘companion’ makes Tony’s ears perk. Companion. Isn’t that how the Europeans usually referred to the ‘partners’ of celebrities? Tony vaguely recalls involuntarily watching a special on the life of Audrey Hepburn – he would have rather been in the lab, but Pepper insisted, and well.. – when they spoke of her ‘companion’ of many years, and does that mean that they think that he and Loki are... are...

‘Oh no! No no no no!!’ Tony holds both hands up in front of him, completely missing the momentary flash of hurt that comes and goes just as quickly from Loki’s face. ‘We are.. we’re old umm… that is I know L.. Dr. Locke’s brother. And we used to.. uhh.. work together. We’re not _together_ as such.’

‘Oh, mi scuso, perdonatemi,’ Giovanni stammers. ‘Please, forgive an old man. I had assumed... I had thought... the Dottore never brings anyone here... I... I think I am needed...’ And with a crab-like awkwardness the chef vanishes through the back doors of the now empty kitchen.

There is an uncomfortable silence, while the three remaining at the table deliberately avoid looking at one another, finally broken by the loud buzz of Loki’s pager. He glances at with an almost palpable sense of relief, standing as he does.

‘Excuse me, it’s the hospital. I need to call in.’ And he walks out the opposite door.

Tony is left at the table with Carmen, staring down awkwardly at his hands, when Carmen’s slim fingers cover his own. ‘Please forgive my husband, he is not terribly good with people, for all that he has the greatest heart of anyone I have ever met. We had all just assumed, you see, because the Dottore never brings anyone else here.’

‘Oh?’ Tony asks, unable to resist the temptation of learning something of Loki’s private life. 

‘Well.. _technically_ I brought him. But now that you mention it, how long _has_ Lo.. the Dottore been coming here?’

‘Oh for a long time now, virtually since we opened.’

‘But... but that’s near a decade now, isn’t it?’ Tony frowns, doing some brief calculations.

‘Yes,’ Carmen’s smiles like Leonardo’s dream of the Madonna. ‘The Dottore, he is.. special. We know that. And I think you do as well.’

‘I... I... yes. Yes I do.’ Tony agrees, nodding his head. ‘How often does he come to see you, usually?’

‘Usually? At least once a week.’ Carmen shrugs, ‘These visits they are sometimes not very long. He will stop by for a cannoli, or espresso and a brief chat. Other times he will stay the whole night, and he and Giovanni will talk about old Italy and modern New York. Three years ago he stopped coming. We thought that maybe he had gone back… to his home. And then last year he came back, drawn and thin and hollow. Like all the life had been drained slowly from him. We fed him, and gave him a place to stay without asking questions. We were not surprised when he told us that he had started working at the hospital – He has a special place in his heart for children. They rarely judge, and perceive the truth in people far easier than most adults. He watched mine grow, and I have watched them with him. He is, I think, very lonely, our Dottore. He never speaks of his family, I had thought them all gone, but you say he has a brother? Are they... were they ever close?’

‘Yes,’ Tony nods, ‘Once, I think. I don’t know. I didn’t know him then, I only know his brother. We…. We work together sometimes.’

‘Ahhh…’ Carmen says wisely. ‘I had thought as much. And what of you? You say you are not his compagno, but I think you do care for him, si?’

Tony pauses to think. Loki, the chaotic, more than a little mad, lying, manipulative, destructive, complicated, gorgeous, brilliant, and desperately, furiously lonely being who for reasons beyond explaining seemed fond enough of children to spend however long was left of his existence trying to make their pain-filled lives a little easier. Who loved Italian food and coffee and architecture and had put him through a plate-glass window, and tried to destroy the world not all that long ago. He remembers the kiss Loki forced on him against a hospital wall. He remembers the surprise on Loki’s face when he asked him to lunch and then dinner. He remembers the rage in Loki’s voice when he threatened him against bringing harm to ‘his’ children. He remembers Loki’s laughter and the clean curve of his throat.

‘I do, yes.’ He admits finally, to himself as much as to Carmen.

‘Si. Benne. It is good. He needs someone to care for him, our Dottore. He has been alone too long...?’

Carmen stands before Tony can answer, turning to Loki as he walks back to the table.

‘I need to leave.’ Loki says, and Tony wonders if he’s lying and how much of his conversation with Carmen he’s overheard. ‘There are complications with a surgery and the nurses can’t reach the other on-call.’

‘Ahhh, but so soon?’ Carmen frowns in disappointment. ‘But I suppose we should be pleased that we have had you for so long. You will come for dinner next week, si? And bring your friend?’ She smiles warmly at Tony, and Tony starts to believe in love at first sight.

‘Forgive me, bellissima,’ Loki kisses Carmen’s hands and then her cheek. ‘Duty calls.’

‘Carmen,’ Tony nods, ‘it has been a genuine pleasure.’

On the drive on the way back Loki is silent, and Tony’s head is full of so many questions that he doesn’t know where to begin.

‘Loki,’ he starts.

‘No, Stark. Not tonight.’ Tony turns his head and is momentarily pinned by the God’s emerald gaze. ‘Don’t ask me. Please. Not tonight. Come back tomorrow. I will have answers for you tomorrow.’

Tony nods, swallowing his shock in silence. Please. That’s twice Loki’s asked him for something and no one would believe him even if he were willing to tell. And he could be lying, but really what has Tony got to lose?

He pulls up to the emergency doors , turns off the car, expecting Loki to jump out, instead the God sits in silence, long hands folded on one knee.

‘Stark,’ he says at the same time as Tony says ‘Loki’ and Tony gestures for Loki to go first.

‘I wanted... I wanted to thank you for a pleasant evening. And to ask that you…’ Loki licks his lips briefly, and Tony is sufficiently mesmerized by the sight of that pink tongue making its brief appearance, to not question the lie that is about to fall off it. ‘I wanted to ask you to keep my… relationship with Giovanni and his family between us. I have placed… wards over them to prevent SHIELD from witnessing my visits, but should anyone learn of them by other means, those protections will fall and I will have no further means of ensuring their continued comfort and safety. I have no doubt that Fury will not hesitate to use Giovanni against me, and I will sooner wipe any memory of me from their minds, than to allow that to happen.’

It’s not what Tony expected, but somehow he’s not surprised. He nods, uncertain of how his voice will sound, hoping that the nod is enough to convey that he will keep the existence of Giovanni’s and everything that it means to Loki out of Fury’s greedy clutches.

‘Thank you, Stark.’ Loki says again, and reaches for the door, and Tony lets out a breath that he did not realize he was holding when Loki suddenly turns, wrapping his hand around the back of Tony’s head, pulling him in for a kiss that is as surprising as it is gentle, the lightest brush of lips, a hint of myrrh and he’s gone before Tony can collect himself enough to blink, staring at Loki’s quickly retreating figure through the closing car door and wondering what the hell just happened, and when exactly it stopped not being a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my thanks to my darling Rikacain for her help, humour and humility.
> 
> Wait.. I take that one back. My 'gremlin' is anything but humble, but mostly that's my fault for singing her constant, if well deserved praise.
> 
> And thank YOU for being here :D Believe it or not, I do not take you for granted, and am always so pleased when you come back.


	9. Chapter 9

‘Come back tomorrow. I’ll give you answers then,’ Loki said, and Tony drives around half the night, licking the remnants of Loki’s mouth from his lips, hearing the sound of his voice. When does ‘tomorrow’ start? Does it start at 12:01 the following day? Does it start with the first cup of coffee? Does it start when the streets begin to fill with busy people making their way to work? Does it start 24 hours from the moment you say ‘tomorrow’? If the God of Lies promises you answers ‘tomorrow’, at what point do you start holding him to his word and when do you start trusting him? 

Tony smashes his hand against the dashboard, he wants, needs a drink, almost as much as he wants to keep a clear head. Or as clear as it can be with the better part of a bottle of wine in his system. Damn Loki. Damn him and his hoops. ‘Come back tomorrow,’, ‘don’t tell Fury,’, ‘give the kids my message’. When did he start dancing to Loki’s tune? Tony sighs dejectedly. He started dancing to Loki’s tune the moment he set foot in that hospital, and Loki bloody well knew it. Damn him for the slippery, twisting, manipulative liar he is. God of Lies. God of Mischief. Killer. Murderer. Tony pictures the look on Loki’s face as he threw him across the room and _through a plate glass window_ and the smile on his face. The smile in his eyes. The smile in his _blue_ eyes. Except that Loki’s eyes are green… Tony’s spent enough time staring into them the past few months, he’d swear to it. He’d stake his fortune, his suit. His life on it, and very well might before it’s over.

‘Jarvis,’

‘Yes sir?’ the car responds.

‘Put me through to Thor.’

‘Sir, it’s 3:00am, Thor Odinsson will likely be sleeping now, and you know how poorly he takes to being woken un-necessarily.’

‘Fair point, ‘ Tony says, mentally rehashing the storm that nearly took out half of Central Park the last time Thor was woken out of a deep sleep. ‘3:30 huh? Put the coffee on. I’ll be home in about 5 minutes.’

\----------------------------------------

Tony is not by nature an early riser. He’s a late ‘stayer-upper’ and frequent non-sleeper. He’s a connoisseur of coffee grounds and over-priced lattes. Most of the 24/7 diners and coffee shops around the tower recognize him by sight and have his order ready without him even having to open his mouth. So it is a bit unusual for Thor, fresh from post-workout shower, towel still wrapped around his neck, to find Tony, at a little past 6, downstairs in the massive, steel and granite kitchen, a half-finished cup of coffee in front of him, looking neither hung-over nor particularly exhausted the way he does after days without sleep, just a bit… impatient.

‘Good morning Anthony Stark!’ Thor booms, sounding not at all surprised. ‘Have you finally succumbed to the glory that is the morning sun, and decided to join Captain Steve Rogers and I for our workout? 

‘I... uh... no.’ Working out with Steve and Thor felt somewhat like being pummeled by a pair of enormous, over-zealous golden-retriever puppies. ‘But I did want to ask you something.’

‘Of course my friend,’ Thor replies, and Tony has to wonder if he would be so quick to offer if he had any idea precisely what Tony had in mind. 

‘Uhhh… what colour are your brother’s eyes?’ Tony asks, mentally cringing and expecting any moment to become an intricate part of the counter.

It’s a great credit to Thor’s innate innocence and unshakable belief in the innate goodness of his fellow Avengers that he does not even pause to take breath before responding. ‘Why, they are as green as the new spring leaves, Anthony. When we were younger, Mother would often say that were she ever to miss spring, all she would have to do is look at Loki’s eyes and she would be reminded of it. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh... uhhhh… no reason. Just y’know… wondering. Theory I have… Sorry.. can’t chat, gotta run –‘

‘Sirs, Director Fury is on the line. The Avengers are needed. There appears to be a situation.’

The ‘situation’ turns out to be a barely post-pubescent, pimply kid, terrorizing the early morning rush hour crowd, with a surprisingly well-built exo-skeleton that only slightly resembled ‘the suit’. Taking out the kid only took a few hours, the better portion of which was spent with Tony bent over laughing, while ‘Scarab King’ monologued just long enough for Natasha to distract him – something about post-pubescent boys and black cat-suits – and for Thor to ‘gently’ bonk him into submission. The paramedics determined that the fallen ‘King’ only had a mild concussion, and the broken collarbones would heal, with no anticipated permanent damage. Thor looks like an over-grown puppy that had an accident on the carpet and insists on accompanying the kid to the hospital to make sure he’s allright.

The remainder of the day unfortunately is spent in Fury’s offices, listening to the what is becoming a typical post-battle tirade, re-hashing property damage, endangerment of non-combative, every-day citizens, civic responsibility and a reminder that if the Avengers were easier accessible, most of these issues could have been prevented. Tony finally puts an end to to the lecture, by snapping a surreptitious photo of Fury in mid-yell, sending a quick text to Jarvis, and moments later a photo-shopped image of Nick Fury wearing a plumed pirate hat, and saying ‘Yaaar’, appears on the desktops of all non-combatant shield members, vastly improving the Monday of countless, unappreciated clerks

By the time the team manages to fight their way out of Fury’s offices, the sun is well on its way down the opposite of the horizon, and long shadows are running up the sides of skyscrapers, slipping slowly into the gutters like the memory of last night’s rain.

Tony curses inwardly, but it has not yet been 24 hours yet. So still ‘tomorrow’. He strips, showers, changes, then changes again, ignores Clint’s dig about a hot date, grabs the first set of keys he laid his hands on and makes a beeline to the hospital.

He needn’t have hurried. A shipment of poorly preserved tuna has sent the better part of a local high-school to the hospital with everything from a minor tummy-ache to a bad case of food poisoning. Every available member of the staff– Loki included – is elbow deep in diarrhea and vomit, pumping stomachs, and handing out Gravol and ginger-ale. After the third time that he is politely, but firmly, asked to get the hell out of the way, Dr. Locke would be free when he was free, Tony eventually passes out on one of the couches in the waiting room, watching re-runs of Lenno.

He is eventually woken by a gentle hand on his shoulder. Startled awake, he finds himself looking up into the deepest, most spectacular pair of eyes, the colour of new leaves.

‘Spring,’ Tony whispers.

Loki frowns. ‘Stark, you’re raving. Are you drunk again? The nurses told me you were pestering them, looking for me. I’m here. What do you want?’

Tony sits up, gaze moving up the length of Loki’s long form. Even in the hideous green of hospital scrubs and white doctor’s coat, that leeches the colour from his already pale complexion, hair pulled back in a tight pony tail, in an attempt to keep it out of range of any projectile vomit, weary lines and dark smudges of exhaustion lingering under those amazing eyes Loki looks… regal. Majestic. Beautiful. What did he want? He wants to see the same smile that lingered on Loki’s face watching Giovanni and Carmen talk about their children. He wants to run his hand over Loki’s perfect skin and wipe away the lines and smudges. He wants to pull Loki in close, taste that incredible mouth and see if he can kiss past the lies until he learns the flavour of truth on the Liesmiths’ tongue. He asks himself, not for the first time, bad decisions aside, how he can possibly have any sort of feeling, other than rage and hatred, for someone who tried to destroy New York, and take over the world, unless.. unless his theory is correct. He wants… he wants…

‘Answers. I want answers.’ Tony whispers.

Loki straightens immediately, taking a step back, cool arrogance falling from his shoulders like an invisible cloak. Only when his face closes, the line and smudges fading away, does Tony realize that for the second time in as many days, not only did Loki ask him for help, but allowed him to peer under the mask, the disguise he wears for the world to see. And now, it is gone.

‘Loki, I didn’t mean…’ he starts.

‘Yes. Yes, you did, Stark.’ Loki’s voice is quiet and bitter, like coffee left sitting too long on the burner and allowed to grow cold. ‘I promised you answers and answers you shall have. I will require but one more thing from you before you receive them.’

‘And what is that, Loki?’ Tony asks, expecting a set of complicated hoops to jump through before he’ll be given the unexpected and hard-won truth.

‘A ride home.’ And Tony wants to slap himself for thinking that Loki would ever say or do the expected. ‘I would very much like to rid myself of the smell of human waste and vomit before commencing our conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, all my thanks to my darling, my support, my bouncing board, my Queen of tense and spelling - Rikacain. Thank you darling. Even though you are an evil gremlin who eats my cookies.
> 
> My deepest thanks as well for the still overwhelming support and response my writing gets. It will never grow tiresome, or taken for granted. If you are here, thank you.
> 
> /bows deeply


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first off, an apology for the very very long no update. My WonderBeta went on holiday and I didn't get a chance to send anything to her prior to her leaving. So then I wrote. And wrote. And wrote some more and changed stuff. And send three – count them – three versions of this chapter off to her while she was away. And then she came back. And edited and fixed and and commented and corrected, because well, she's FABULOUS like that.
> 
> So what did I do the moment I got my chapter back? I changed it. Again. And this time, I didn't re-send it back to her, because well, I love my Beta and appreciate all of her hard work so much, that I really think that YOU GUYS need to love and appreciate her work too. So this chapter comes to you only partially 'Beta-Tested'.
> 
> PS: This is also where I take a step to the left of Cannon, History, Myth, and just about anything and everything Loki-related. I blame Oscar Peterson. And Lena Horne. And Billie Holiday. And Cole Porter, who does not appear in this chapter, but might later in the story. You have been warned.

The ride back to the flat is silent. The moment he gets into the car, Loki leans back in his seat, shutting both his eyes and face with an expression that does not invite conversation. In the dim interior of the car, broken only by the occasional street lamp and stop-light, the harsh lines of exhaustion disappear from the God’s face, the pallor of exhaustion once again smoothes back to ivory perfection. Resting easily under Tony’s close scrutiny, Loki looks young, almost… human.

‘Had I known, Stark, that it would take so little to distract you as my taking a nap, things might have gone very differently for you a year ago.’ Loki snaps, without bothering to open his eyes, and even his voice shows signs of weariness. ‘Odin’s choke-collar aside, I am still a God, and doubtless will survive the crash resulting from your lack of attention on the road, however I very much doubt that you will be quite be so fortunate.’ Startled, Tony silently curses himself for getting caught staring, as he notes the slow smile spreading across Loki’s face from the corner of his eye, and the remainder of the drive keeps his attention focused on the road.

When they step into the loft, Loki casually tosses his keys into a flat, ceramic bowl that looks like something Julius Caesar may have been served olives in, and throws his jacket over the back of a chair, which had been sat on by French kings.  The last time he was here, Tony didn’t have much of an opportunity to take a look around, so he makes up for it now, glancing around eagerly, not bothering to conceal his curiosity, while Loki looks on, hands tucked casually in the pockets of his pants, an amused smirk on his face.

‘If you’re hungry, the fridge is over there,’ Loki indicates the direction of a polished steel and granite kitchen with the tilt of his chin. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll be able to sniff out the bar. Do not make yourself at home, but do feel free to have a seat.’ The God says, flicking a button on a tiny remote, and the soft sounds of jazz fill the air, covering the sound of footsteps, as he walk down a hall shaped by a series of painted, lacquer screens.  With a shrug, Tony turns around to take advantage of the unexpected.

The inventor isn’t sure what he had expected Loki’s home to look like. Stainless steel and glass perhaps.  Modern minimalism, or something that looked like it might belong in the Viking exhibit at the Smithsonian.  He was not expecting the vast, sprawling space, to be filled with over-stuffed leather couches, Arts and Crafts wooden tables supporting delicate, Tiffany cut-glass lamps, inviting, brocade arm-chairs, many, many bookcases full of books, photos, and what seemed like a millennia’s worth of elegant knick-knacks carefully placed in amongst the books.  One of the lesser known, stand-up Steinway’s sits in a corner, with the portrait of a young, gorgeous black woman, head tilted back in ecstasy or song, holding a place of honour on its polished surface.  ‘Loke, for a white boy you sure got soul. Keep tickling them keys, baby. Always, Billy’ The inscription reads.  A handful of water rings, polished and preserved mar the otherwise pristine surface, and Tony can’t help but chuckle, having left a number of similar rings on priceless furniture himself.

Curious, Tony wanders over to the book-shelves, picks a book at random. It’s in Italian, old, leather-bound and autographed.  He can’t read the full inscription, written in faded, barely visible ink, but he recognizes the name at the top ‘Loke’. Tony flips back to the front cover, reading the only thing he can – the publishing date. 1920. Loki had a book autographed to him, presumably by the author in 1920. The engineer shakes his head, slipping the book back carefully along its fellows, turning his attention to the pictures on the wall and side-tables instead. Most are old. Older, black and white turning to sepia, in faded wood and silver frames. Tony isn’t a fan of history, but even he appreciates the range of eras – precise gentlemen in tailored morning coats, prim, elegant ladies in perfectly coiffed hats, ankle length skirts and saddle-shoes, screaming flappers with feathers in their hair, holding up illegal bottles of champagne. A shot of what could only be gangsters, gathered around a car, Tommy-guns raised in salute, and there, unmistakable eyes peering from under the brim of a fedora, Loki.

Tony chuckles. It figured. There again, Loki, in profile this time, expression intent, focused, surrounded by a handful of equally intent, thin, dark-haired people, partially hidden by towering piles of books. The inscription is in Cyrillic and Tony can’t read it, but he can read the date – 1918. So recently… how long has Loki been visiting Earth, and more importantly why? He had made no attempt to take over or destroy, hiding in plain sight, playing jazz in the ‘black’ clubs of the 30’s and 40’s, rum-running with gangsters in the 20’s, and then what?.. writing poetry and planning a revolution in Lenin’s Russia? The inventor shakes his head, and wonders again how any them, Thor included, could have ever thought that they really knew Loki.

Another photo catches his eye, and he picks it up considering.  Loki again, his hair a tad shorter, and smiling, but Loki none-the-less, his arm around a significantly shorter, equally smiling, very young man, barely out of his teens, who looks surprisingly familiar.  Dark hair, broad smile, friendly eyes.  He knows those eyes… that smile.  He reads the notes – ‘Loke and Giovanni, Pisa 1970.’  Tony starts to laugh. We know he’s special, Carmen had said.  Oh they know alright!  Loki’s known Giovanni over 40 years, and hasn’t changed a bit… and why after all these years is he still associating with a mortal? Well Tony would just add that to the list of questions. 

‘See something you like?’  Tony spins, because no one should be able to move that quietly, and stops cold, trying to swallow past a mouth gone suddenly dry. Loki is wearing a towel. If the sorry excuse, half-haphazardly tucked piece of cloth around the Trickster’s hips, and barely hanging on, could rightly be called a towel. The God’s hair is still damp, wet tendrils spilling rivulets of water along the smooth, perfect line of his chest, down a stomach that begs for the scrape of teeth and press of nails, against the too flawless skin, to the bit of terry cloth hanging between him and the world.  Dressed, Loki looks slender, just one shade of skinny. Undressed… he’s glorious. Each long, lean plane of muscle so carved and perfect, he may be a marble study chiseled by one of the Italian sculptors he is so fond of.

‘Oh yes,’ Tony admits admiringly, taking a step forward, closing the distance between himself and Loki.  There wouldn’t be a point in lying, not with the God of Lies knowing precisely what he looks like, and the effect he’s likely to achieve walking around virtually naked. 

‘This is very, very nice.’ He whispers against Loki’s damp shoulder, rewarded by the barely perceptible shiver that runs down his skin Unable to resist, Tony slowly runs his fingers along the edge of Loki’s waist, where towel meets skin, stopping at the barely tied knot.  Stopping is the hardest thing he’s ever done, especially with Loki’s shallow intake of breath. ‘I would be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted.’ Tony doesn’t have to see Loki’s face to imagine the triumphant little smile dancing on Loki’s lips, as he slowly steps around to the God’s back, fingers lazily trailing the border of towel and skin, reveling in the slight quickness of breath.  Given the difference in their heights, Tony’s mouth lands just beneath Loki’s shoulder-blades, and he inhales deeply the scent of expensive soap, aftershave and myrrh and under it all something sharp, and subtle, like the first December snowfall.

‘Like I said, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted.  I’m very… _very_ tempted,’ Tony chuckles, watching the strain leave the alabaster shoulders, only to be replaced with a completely different kind of tension, ‘but right now I’m much more interested in finding out what questions you are so desperately hoping to avoid answering, that you would offer yourself up as a distraction, just to prevent me from asking.’

The God spins immediately with an almost audible hiss, green eyes narrowed, looking for all the world like a cat that's just slipped into a bath full of water, and is busy convincing the world it had meant to do so all along. ‘Fix me a drink, Stark.’ He spits out. ‘I will be out in but a moment.’  And pads back down the hall on silent feet, back stiff with feline arrogance.

He does return a few minutes later, dressed in a black tunic and matching pair of pants, hand embroidered dragons in green and gold spiraling around his shoulders and upper back, black slippers on his feet. On a less striking man the outfit might look like a pair of cheap pajamas, but with Loki’s long hair, height and bearing the simple outfit looks like the guise of an ancient emperor.

Wordlessly, Tony hands him a glass, watching as the God sits down easily across from him, folding long legs beneath him, and takes a long drink of his Scotch. ‘Well Stark, what is it that you want to know first?’ he asks.

Instead of answering, Tony considers the man sitting across from him. Loki’s expression is as closed now as it was in the car earlier, the brief moment of relaxation under Stark’s fingers gone as if it never existed, and Tony feels a momentary loss for something that was never real.

‘Just like that huh?  Ever hear of foreplay?’ 

Loki’s expression is inscrutable, and he stares unblinking at Tony from agate green eyes.

‘So….. you knew Billie Holiday? And the Russian chick? Who was that?’  
‘Akhmatova.’ Loki sighs. ‘Anna Akhmatova. She was a poet. A rather spectacular one, even by my standards. Her ex-husband was taken, vanished, by Lenin’s men. She asked me for aid. I didn’t give it.’ ‘Why not? Not interesting enough to hold your attention?’ Tony asks and immediately regrets it, thinking of the children whose lives Loki had made easier, even before he sees the look flash across Loki’s face, like a slap.’ ‘Do not presume that you know me or what motivates my actions Stark.’ Loki snarls. ‘You think a handful of shared meals, and the muddled recollections of an acquaintance have suddenly given you deep insight into the workings of my mind? Don’t flatter yourself Stark. You know nothing of what moves me, Stark. Nor will you, ever.’

Tony sighs, standing.  ‘You know, Loki, you’re right.  I don’t know anything about you, and really, why bother?  You’re happy living behind those massive walls you’ve built around yourself, wallowing in all that self-righteous anguish – oh I was adopted!  Oh my parents lied to protect me!  Oh my brother who loves me in spite of all the shit and abuse I throw at him with every opportunity, in spite of all the times I’ve tried to kill him and his friends, is better than I am at just about everything.  Oh I tried to take over the Earth, and a bunch of – what was it you’d called us? Oh yes - _lost and broken creatures_ stopped me, and now everyone hates me, and if for some twisted reason someone actually _doesn’t_ hate you – though God alone – and not you or your brother either!  - knows why - you’ll do just about everything in your twisted and limited – oh but wait, Odin put a kibosh on that one too, didn’t he?  - power to torment anything resembling truth and trust until they really do hate you, so why bother? I’m just curious about one thing, and then I’ll leave you alone to wallow in your self-pity – how long till you get bored playing ‘doctor’ and run off to find something else to keep you occupied?’

‘What do YOU?! Know of it?’ Loki’s expressive face is the definition of revulsion. ‘I have spent more nearly more years than your people have been walking upright,surrounded by those who have always discounted me as second best, no matter my accomplishments. You who have been surrounded by love and family all of your life? You, born knowing that nothing stood between you and your Father's throne, groomed to take over an empire since you were barely old enough to walk. Where as I have been, from my false cradle treated as second best. What would **you** know of it? Never being quite good enough, no matter how hard you may have worked or how you may have exceed the expectations of the miserable excuses for teachers that you were provided? What would _you_ know of always being second in your supposed parents affections, and never knowing why? Or what you may have possibly done wrong? What would you know of intentionally causing harm if only for a moment steal some of the attention so flagrantly handed to your inane brother? I wish that it came to me as a surprise, when I finally learned that I was no true son of Odin. That contrary to what ever lies he might pass off - to _me_ no less! - that I was only brought in into his home because I was a pawn. A game-piece, held in check, used against Laufey if ever the need arose, and one they raised to hate no less, and seek the destruction of whence he spawned.

Self-loathing was not acquired of habit, for me Stark – I was trained to it. ’

If Loki expected condolence, understanding or even compassion, he find himself sorely disappointed. ‘Love and family? You’re kidding me right?’ Tony snorts, voice dripping with enough venom that even Loki looks up and takes notice. ‘The only time my Dad actually took notice of me, was when I got underfoot, or when he caught me breaking into his liquor cabinet. My Mother is the only one who had ever paid attention, and even then Dad said that she was ‘coddling’ me. You know what he told me when I got into MIT? What took me so long. I would have given anything… _anything_ to have had an older brother to take some of the pressure off. Hell… I would’ve just been glad to have had a brother. Or really, a family. Any sort of family. Mine died in a plane when I was 17, and then the old bastard that stood in for me, tried to kill me with one of my own bombs!’ The glass lamps ring with Tony's shout and he realizes that he's yelling at a God. A God that's got a choke-collar around his divine neck, but a God all the same, and any minute now he's going to go sailing through another window, and he's pretty sure that this time around, Jarvis isn't going to be there to save him.

Instead he hears Loki's voice quietly saying something. It takes a minute to for it register.

'It would appear that both our family lives are somewhat lacking in stability.' the trickster states with elegant understatement. 'Was that how you came by that? The bomb which failed to kill you?’ 

‘Ya.. Arc Reactors,’ Tony snaps, the sarcasm so ingrained keeping it from his voice takes more effort than not ‘keeping shrapnel from hearts and mad Gods from your minds since 2008.’

The ‘mad God’ actually chuckles. ‘It’s actually a gorgeous little piece of technology. I had a clever friend once, who I think would have very much enjoyed seeing it.’

‘Oh ya?... Hang out with many scientists over the years have you?’ 

‘Not particularly.’ Loki shrugs. ‘Until recently your science was not sufficiently advanced to be at all interesting. And Leonardo was really more of an artist than a scientist, though he did like to tinker when opportunity presented itself.’

Tony shakes his head. ‘Leonardo? Leonardo DaVinci? Seriously?! You _knew_ Leonardo DaVinci? You’re shitting me.’

Loki frowns. ‘You would believe that I knew Billie Holiday and was banned from the city state of Florence by order of the Medici’s, but not that I might have made the effort to know one of the most interesting, intelligent, creative minds your little backward world had the audacity to spawn? What benefit is there for me to lie about something so trifling? Surely you don’t think I would attempt to impress you by this?’

‘Uhh…. No? Just… it’s like all those reincarnation ploys’ Tony shrugs ‘– no one was ever seems to have been a water boy, or a servant in a past life. They were all like, Julius Caesar, or Cleopatra, or I dunno… famous people, in past lives. You didn’t know him did you? Caesar?’ he asks suddenly thinking of the bowl outside.

‘No,’ Loki shakes his head. ‘But I did know Brutus.’ He adds with a straight face and laughs at Tony’s expression. ‘I jest. I have no interest in the failed conquerors of your world. But your artists, your philosophers, the creators of your music and poetry. They are interesting. And they do burn so very brightly, for all that their lives are often all too brief. You remind me of him a little bit, actually’

‘Brutus?’ Tony’s eyebrows fly halfway up his forehead.

‘No peasant!’ Loki’s laugh holds a genuine note of humour in it. ‘Leonardo DaVinci. He had an insatiable curiosity about the world. He wanted to take it apart to learn how it was made, so that he might in turn make of it a better place. Like you, he invented many of the tools he needed for his experiments and research. I would have gladly prolonged his life, had he allowed it, but he was curious of what lay on the other side.’ Loki smiles sadly. ‘I often miss him a very great deal.’

‘Well.. lets drink to that shall we?’ Tony refills his own glass, and tops up Loki’s. ‘Here’s to absent friends, and terrible fathers.’

The mad God and the inventor often accused of similar madness, clink glasses and drink in a less uncomfortable silence.

‘So,’ Tony finally asks. ‘You and Giovanni. How’d that happen? He is neither an artist or a poet, or really, with all respect for his cooking, particularly interesting.’

‘Giovanni was 8 when I first met him,’ Loki reminisces ‘a homeless pick-pocket, living on the streets of Pisa. He tried to pick my pocket.  It was how we met.’

‘A pick-pocket,’ Tony repeats, turning slowly, trying to picture the proper, round-bellied family man, chef and successful restaurateur as a bare-footed, eight year old thief, sliding his tiny hand inside a God’s pocket.  ‘That’s quite the leap, from stealing on the streets of Pisa, to running a restaurant in New York.’

‘Yes,’ Loki shrugs, ‘I suppose it is.  I haven’t really thought of it for a while.  One thing just led to another.  Giovanni had no one, and…  and I had no one to call mine.  For a while we wandered the streets of Pisa, just another pair of tricksters, eking out a living...’

Tony can almost see it – Giovanni and Loki, wandering through the streets of Pisa, conning the tourists, picking the odd pocket, plying their trade, sharing an uncomplicated joy in one another’s company.

‘Before I knew it, Giovanni was 15, and in need of a proper trade, and although I think he would have been just as happy to spend his life a street thief, it wasn’t a proper life for him.’ Loki continued.  ‘Although it’s become quite modern, in many ways it is still the Pisa I knew, and masters were more than willing to accept apprentices, no matter how…. unusual their origins given sufficient… incentive.  Fortunately, money was always just a bluff away, so we were never what would call, low, on funds.  After some trial and error, we discovered that Giovanni had a great gift, a talent if you will, for cooking.  The rest, as they say, is history.’

‘Good story.’  The engineer replies, peering closer, seeing something barely recognizable and unexpected in Loki’s eyes. ‘Oh my god… You loved him, didn’t you?’ 

‘I did. Yes, but now in the way you might think.’ Loki looks away, refusing to face Tony.  ‘I loved… I helped Giovanni, because he reminded me of my sons.’

 ‘Your WHAT?’ Tony loses his hard won composure, pushing himself back from the wall.  ‘You have… sons?’

‘Yes,’ Loki replies, ‘Their names are Vali and Naarfi.  They are.. they would have been my children. And for my actions, they will be butchered.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in the process of working on the next chapter for this, but once that's done expect a bit of a 'hiatus' in this story, because there is that other 'thing' that's being horribly difficult, but needs to be worked on regardless.
> 
> Thank you all who take the time to read, comment and Kudo. You are the cream in my coffee and the jam on my toast.
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Loki reads is a partial - the entire thing is really really long - from the very famous poem Ruslan and Lyudmila by Aleksandr Pushkin. The original is considerably more striking in Russian, but this was, alas, the best translation I could come up with.
> 
> You can find a link to the entirety here: http://www.poetryloverspage.com/yevgeny/pushkin/ruslan_and_lyudmila.html
> 
> The rest of his poetry is also pretty damn fantastic, so by all means check it out.


End file.
